Saturday, October 10, 2009

Poetry Year October 3

A thrush that sings in the wilderness,
clings to thorns that bind her feet,
curling claw around the branch,
broken warbles cut to the clear.

Huddled head into tufts of white.

Gapes and gaps in gray strewn cloud,
as rain falls down to cry outloud,
the earth opens to receive the light pattern notes,
of mist that drifts to ground.

A thrush, a thrush, a thrush
that sings and cries,
under tumbling nuance skies.
Alone, alone, alone, this day,
her chicks have flow, and far away.

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