A Bird in County Clare
This morning’s minion was white-shouldered,
sat on the stone wall, not caught by the wind.
Slow and heavy, awkward on his thin bird
legs, he hopped sideways down the wall and stopped.
There would be no bright buckling here, no flash
of crimson gold, as the cloud and land split
open. I watched his huddled shape, feathers
blowing like the grasses in a ditch, stay
Earthbound, head bowed, his dull eye turned
away from the house, his wings tucked roughly
behind his back as he noticed the complete
absence of branch and leaf, which I now saw
For the first time when I wondered what song
he might have sung, in what bare ruined choir.
