One summer evening as light spoke its last
and covered with gold
opening rose-buds, a blackbird's late song
wrung the still air in passion
from nowhere as neatly strung cascades of
notes coated the gloaming
with soul which struck my heart in passing.

Delighted by listening were my ears dulled
by too much busyness
to hear crystal clear scales piercing twilight
with symphony as in my
childhood's countryside quiet where I then
heard magic in birdsong
and first felt need to describe the beautiful.

An inspiring muse to me was he once, he of
sweet trill which pleasured
my nights by writing his liquid lullaby into
rhyme, now again reminds
me to feel strength in his message, resurrect
the freedom of pen and try
to express thru' word his recital of self-hood.

Oh if only I could.