| |
Ouzel
I watched in the woods, until as I wished,
Upon a mossy rock lit an ouzel
In a shaft of light shining ‘midst the mists
Of a swiftly swirling stream in the dell.
If he came to dance, he had come to please.
My overgrown wren slowly flexed his knees
Blissfully bobbing, crying, “Zeet, zeet, zeet” –
A rousing rhumba on unmoving feet.
Looking about, in solitude, blinking,
As if for traffic, when with a quick move
And a clear note of joy, shrilly ringing,
Into the roiling cataract he dove
To the bottom of the water, how odd;
There to trod like some strange inverted god.
Copyright ©
David Drowley
|