The poem you saw earlier has been tucked away for a couple of weeks so today it was time to look at it again. I've kept the first line - and that's all. I plan to keep the original second stanza as it holds a truth albeit for a different poem. So here's the next (but not the last) version. The rhythm needs smoothing in places and there are a few words I'm not satisfied with. I had planned a multi-layered poem but the poem has decided it wants to be simple.... Time to put it away for a couple more weeks.
White Coppice, April 14th 2009
The willows aren't alive until the warblers arrive,
winding their songs through the trees,
encouraging catkins out of their buds
to entice their pollen away.
And silver birches stir from their stupors
pulse sap to the beat of green-feather calls.
Leaves will grow and shimmer the trees,
and the warblers will hide in their homes,
a cuckoo will lay deceit in a nest,
shoulder out the birthrights.
The world will quietly turn,
towing these songsters in its arc,
yet some will survive
and renew their gift of irrepressible hope
to start another year.
Willow warbler photo by Mike Atkinson. Follow the link in the side bar to his site.