Darkling Thrush', from Hardy's poem,
floats up, tormenting, in my mind.
My own thrush sings from early on,
no 'frail, gaunt', withered bird is he,
but full of spirit, spunk and spleen.
Like me in fact! But then I lie,
more like that other thrush am 1.
But when first read, I was a youth,
like yon young bird who sings on high,
'Hello, hello - hello, hello.'
A gentle sigh, a warm caress,
I taste her breath, delicious skin.
Oh had I back those years all gone,
then I would show that lusty thrush
who sings so vigorously at the dawn.
Instead, again, 'The Darkling Thrush', forces his way back in