Good Morning

The morning is sweet

With the bird’s high ether,

Trill, and as full

As their abandon.

The air is warm and fragrant,

Infiltrated with wood smoke

And the earth’s low savour.

In a faraway glance,

The distance fades in to mist.

The morning in the breath is sweet.

Beautiful Knife

Upon me rolls the wave

Of being,

Brought by the voice of the bird

Invisible in the thicket.

With the pick of her beak

And blade of her song

She cuts

The monoculture of mind

Bent on blandness

And domination,

And frees me

From the world of my cage

To world of my own.

Blackbird

A blackbird hidden
Among the high branches
Whittles a song
With the tool
Of its tongue
And sculpts
The undisciplined air
To the fine art
Of a tune,
Whistled and warbled
And finally returned
By the breath
Conveying the voice,
Beautifully transformed.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Avenue Of Finches

The finches and dawn tits
Make an avenue of the gardens,
Traversing boundary and fence
As if they weren’t hurdles
But opportunity along the way.

Each March they make their highway here,
Gathering seeds from spent winter stems.
And from pods, crisp in bunches, they cling,
Feeding as if the wait were over
And the joyous work of spring begun.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016