of dawn, as who their song resists –
apple blossom tinged with lips of fire?
across the orchard’s early mists
the first chorus of the April choir.
the sweet chaffinch, pinking in the dawn,
of chiffchaff, telling that the night
gone; a liquid fluting from the white hawthorn
the blackcap – then all the birds delight!
your bedroom window; smell the green,
in the cool perfume of morn,
in the music flowing in a stream
yet another choral spring is birdly
still! And know that I am God among the trees.
still! Praise your Creator in the least of these.