by oosh
Cruel April come again And with spring, the blackbird song: Gaping, yellow scissor points Cleave the air with melody. Often have I heard his wives Cluck their panic in the hedge As the neutered, house-fed cat Prowls the undergrowth for chicks. But father, high in the oak Proudly hymns his family Fearless of the autumn gale That scatters them for ever; And they listen. So do I: Words he cannot understand Echo back to springs long gone When his father sang that song. Variations, each new turn More audacious than the last Beckoning his fledgling sons Come and soar upon the air. Each melisma pierces keener, Higher wings uplifted heart; Stilling time, yet pointing time: Every year, one more has passed. As each winter warms to spring More I dread as deeper cuts Ancient song recast in hope Lovelier than memory. Ever sooner comes the year – He and I forgotten, gone – When his sons sing out new blood Wine that old hearts cannot bear: But makes new wings to beat And swoop to carve the wind And young hearts fly.