A luckless boy
With a disc camera
Chases a picture of beauty.
A picture of his favourite bird:
The Song Thrush.

This boy feels as free
As the bird he seeks.
This boy sings his own song
Unaware of a bigger chorus
That will, one day soon,
Drown out his naïve tune.

Still, with tail up,
He chases that elusive bird
With a camera he does not understand
On a film he will never develop.

But he is lost in the moment,
Skulking and flitting
From one place to the next
Trying quietly (but loudly)
Not to startle the Song Thrush
As it whistles its timeless song.