There had been cat-stink out by the bushes,
and I was scared
for the song-thrush, its nest
a chalice of grass and twigs, carpeted
with mud and human hairs; there were five
glossy sky-blue eggs
spotted with black stars. The birds, evenings,
intoned old Gaelic melodies
in the back yard, softly repeated
flute-notes, sounding
of woods and orchids and running streams.
The redcurrant bushes
had wintered like stragglers after the fair,
leftovers, wickerings,
but now are rich with leaves and hidden
currant clusters. Dandelions swarm
through the grasses and thrush’s song holds
a sweeter bitterness;
thrush’s young are fattening on snail and worm,
thrush has a fine red berry in its bill; and I,
in God’s in-breathing out-breathing presence,
am at prayer, I am
psalm and psalter, word and silence, I am bird
and bush and berry, accompaniment and song.