Small bird in a bush:
cars in the street rush
past it like the Gadarene swine,
line upon line.
Soft feathers fluff
in a lean wind, rough
as a rasp in the leaves’ green,
brooming the earth clean.
Cognisant of none
save the strengthening sun,
the blood of its dawn
still red on the hill,
it sings and it sings,
repetitive rings
and showers of sound
seeming profound
to the shallows in me,
but, in reality,
only a bird’s things:
sex and seed, rain on the wings,
consciousness of warmth and light,
withdrawal of the night,
the wind’s suddenness,
or its silences.
All this I know,
and no less know
its innocence, my prescience,
and which the better sense,
and which the finer face,
and which the saving grace:
self-seeking orison
or this simple hymnal to the sun?
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small birds singing in the bush
From guest dean brignull (contact)
i thought it was one of the best touching poems that i have evre read could you please send me an email iwould like a bit more information so i could use it for my coursework for my school thanks hope to talk soon -
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To guest Dean Brignull (and others)
There are only a few of us on the Oldpoetry Research Team and we only do this as a voluntary hobby so we haven't always got time to respond to everybody individually and certainly not to indulge in e-mail conversations.
It is assumed that poems on OLDPOETRY.COM are all in the public domain so please feel free to print a copy of the poem (there is a link on the right hand side to help you) and check out the author's home page to get as much information about the poet as we have currently available.
Good luck on your project.
Jim
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