There you are little wren,
Drawing my attention in,
To your looping, lonely, little psalm —

Wood pigeon, wren and linnet call
chaffinch, greenfinch, welcome all
dine with me, come pull up a seat
sing soft on the fountain, watch me eat
drink from a day that is near to ending
all fierce promise dulled and blending

I sat upon a fashioned stump
Where birds and bugs all ducked and dived;
Stuck on the stump before a ****
And wondering which to hide.

A smear of veg before me spreads
As far as the mind can see;
And dazzling flowers all nod their heads,
And all of them smile at me.

Then the birds, the birds all sing their song,
And the rest can buzz and dance along,
So I know that really it can’t be long
‘Till everything’s smiling at me.

But the buzz and the song -
Oh, where had they gone?
And those flowers -
How they smiled at me!

If I am to die any time soon
Please, lord, let it be on a Sunday afternoon;
Let it be 15 degrees with a slight breeze;
Let it be under a soft sky with a purple hue;
Let it put an end to me feeling so blue;
As the aeroplane trails fade out of sight,
Let the blackbird song lull me into night.

i hear
the birds fly
overhead,
their chirps, squeaks
and squawks
inviting me
outside
to join the
morning party.

The blue jays rise the dead
to rise with the sun.
Singing the suns song of his divine departure
as he departs those farther from their fathers,
farther towards the heavens,
bathed in heavenly glow.
Bound still to the earth, mourners cry
mourning a loss
deemed lost by the morning light.
Lighting up their despairs
despaired as life moves on,
missing out on a life.

The song a blue jay sings
is the same
as the ballad a mourner cries.

it's five o clock
yes in the morning
birdsong has woken me
an hour and a half
before my alarm
was supposed to
even after another
terrible night's sleep
to-ing and fro-ing
with tossings
and turnings
staring into the blank
of ceiling and wall
not enough comfort
or perhaps too much
on this slumped mattress
to slip deep enough
beyond those initial
stages of slumber
down into REM
i'm surprised to find
i'm not as angry
nor as drained
as i thought i would be
at such premature awakening
i can lie still
untroubled for now
contentedly listening
to the chattering
of these feathered neighbours
an avian symphony
of movements manifold

sweet birdsong consumes
the bitterness of cities
a summer morning