Song Bird
T Tom Billsborough
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In the beginning, nothing
But my breath which briefly
Clothes the dark surrounding trees.
A transient ghost, as I like Calliope
Of the shadows await my Orpheus
And his lyre to summon up
His pale Eurydice, unseen.
At last a single note to punctuate the night,
And then the stanzas start,
Each phrase a snowflake with its six sharp points
In perfect pitch, and like the snowflake
Patterns subtly changing, phrase by phrase.
I gaze above but cannot see the source
Of this melodious wooing,
But trust Eurydice will wake
To hear love calling
Or is my nightingale rehearsing
For a time more opportune for courting?
Nothing stirs as if the very wood is listening!
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