Thrush

bydemure101©

After the stunning whites, the mean
cold greys of lowering skies that bring
the mist and rain; a listless, lean
old winter's stamp's on everything –
and you can still remember how to sing?

Dirty greens, wet browns and poor black
soil lie waiting for the spring;
the snows have melted in each track –
old winter's stamp's on everything –
and you can still remember how to sing?

Black shapes upon a broken bough,
two shabby crows sit arguing
like people in a fearful row –
old winter's stamp's on everything,
and you can still remember how to sing?

Grown stiff with cold the crows fall dumb;
the season's not yet lost its sting.
Outdoors, my hands and feet grow numb:
old winter's stamp's on everything
but you can still remember how to sing.






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