Down the dusty road
past the beech tree high
The blackbird a passing shadow
who doesn't bother
asking me what or where or why?
Where is his nest and in what tree
and where does it grow?
Is it next to the oak
and is there mistletoe?
How many times has he flown
this very road and more
how many chicks does he have
two, or three or four.
High by the mistletoe, no doubt
he will sleep tonight
as I rest on a simple couch
severed from the world once more
I wish I was
beyond the trees
in a
world where no one sleeps
as quiet rest restores
in silent hymns of praise.
Copyright L. Ivison 2025
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