His voice had fallen feather-like
Into the bottom of a well
Rippling the circle of sunlight
Until it settled in the stillness
Of the interrupted shadows
Smelling the dankness he listened
For the echo of his breathing
Amongst all the drowned melodies
The lamentations of the lost
Reaching up with whispering hands
His dowie reverie broken
By a jackdaw-heckler’s “tchak”
Winter dropped its claim on him
A whirl of leaves lifted his mood
And the bird eased into the breeze