Fled is that Birdsong (second version)

There are some

who get excited

when they hear

a bird on a bough

in the evening,

singing a song

dinosaur cousins

did a dance to,

composed aeons

of aeons before

wild men in skins

caught the bug

and passed it on

down the line.

 

They are people
who remind me
of someone who
patiently pores

over the fabric
of an unfinished
poem, tailoring it
over and over,
to make it mean
what is meant
by the anguish

of endeavours

to pin down a

birdsong moment.
.