Wren. Full song. No subsong. Call of alarm, spreketh & ought
damage the eyes with its form, small body, tail pricked up & beak
like a hair
trailed through briars & at a distance scored with lime scent in the
like scrapings from a goldsmith’s cuttle, rock alum & fair butter well-
which script goes is unrecognised by this one, is pulled by the ear
in anger the line at fault is under and inwardly drear as a bridge in
reared up inotherwise to seal the eyes through darkness, the bridge
it does not speak, the starlings speak that steal the speech of men,
a spark that meets the idea of itself, apparently fearless.
Ah cruelty. And I had not stopped to think upon it
& I had not extended it into the world for love for naught.
From Staple No 62 (Spring/Summer 2005)