Thrush

Song Thrush

On stark dead branch,
The Song Thrush sings,
Of rich men, poor men,
Saints and kings.
High on his branch,
He makes his stand,
A vantage point,
To see the land.
O'er garden and field,
Copse and town,
All can hear,
His song come down.
As darkness falls,
He shakes his wing,
Silhouette to sky,
Still he'll sing.
Proclaiming joy,
And life so sweet,
Warm sunny days,
And food to eat.
A Blackbird's shrill,
Call of alarm,
Brings silence,
And a sense of calm.
Now the tree,
Bare and dead,
Stand lonely,
Song Thrush gone,
His message said.
Night clouds gather,
Bringing sorrow,
Smile, Song Thrush,
Will return tomorrow.

Steve Jones
19.6.95