This is my song — with the wee sparrows
Persecuting their parents across the car-trodden streets,
With the young starlings, coarse
And learning to fly in a crow-infested universe;
A song made with pink chestnut flowers in southerly wind,
Heaping up on street-corners;
And an occasional rustle of a
brown oak-leaf pinned up by bright grass-blades green.
This is my song — in all weathers;
It sings the clouds and walks in the rain,
And the wind is its scale.
A song of the breathless silences
Between the soft queries the geese issue
Forth whilst travelling home,
And of waiting so fiercely that my bones
Are on fire, as the echoes return
From you to my heart.