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I have surprised myself by how often I think and talk about birdsong: since living here, I miss it; in the UK I notice it and I love it.

This poem comes from 2014 but I revised it when in my Kimpton home last week because 'my' thrush was singing its heart out as I lay in bed in the morning, and I was glad.

The photo is not my own (neither was the last, although most of them are) but hey I can't save the world either, so will you forgive me that shortfall?

The Thrush in the Morning

Night’s covers slip away at the gentle touch of dawn,

light enters with softest footfall

and earth stretches itself from its sleepy languor.

A tender smile on the sun’s lips welcomes today’s emerging life,

its mother-whispers ushering us through the dreamy thresholds of our waking.

And you, little bird, give voice

to the joy of the morning.

Roused by first light,

your song spills out,


like icy water from its source.

Hearing you, I too rise to the music of this day.


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