Of Winged Things (Corona Of Wreathed Quatrains)
I. A yellow weaver
Time and again I see it fluttering
a small thing on the gate of the driveway
each day stretching, shaking its tiny wings,
while it sings, it’s as if I see it play
to portray a game that just weavers knows,
as the breeze blows it is twittering,
with feathers shining, quickly out it throws
in a own show paws and beak and its wing;
delighting with feathers yellow and sleek
somewhat meek I see it with colours shining,
with dogs wining giving me a small peek,
in the week I hear a pretty bird sing.
II. A black-collard barbet
During the week I hear a pretty bird sing
joy it brings to my old stuffy study
joy of being free, right where it’s sitting,
it sings as if it is singing only to me
very sublimely it visits me daily
in pure glee with a voice quite startling,
it sings from early light happy and gaily,
in beauty the notes keeps on ringing,
something happens and one day it is gone,
it moves on and I watch until darkness;
missing its kindness, I am the only one,
on a stone it’s out in the wilderness.
III. A thrush
To bless it is out in the wilderness
displaying goodness far from its own nest
singing at its best in pure happiness
without distress far away from the rest;
very modest I came upon a thrush
in the bush blessing me totally profound,
I did it found, in the veldt, deep into the brush,
in a holy hush I heard the loveliest sound
of unbound glory somewhere on a branch,
nothing could enhance its beauty on the eye
[...] Read more
poem by Gert Strydom
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