Fay Slimm.

A Something.

 

A Something.

 

My heart is astir with a something
this morning
I caught aloft under a bluebell sky.

A bird who trills high yet smaller
than small was
with its tiny frame making reply
to my awe
which soared as I spied crest of
gold above
darkest of breast and largest eye.

The park which graces this valley
will never best
the feathered perfection I almost
saw marking his
own terrain with sublime bird-talk.

A goldcrest at Tuckingmill crowned
my daily walk with
one tail-flick then sped off soundless.