A bursting song, vivacious fire,
Which spreads the word of ancient woods.
Proclaims itself a spirit free,
Declares itself a truth to fear.
From caves and webs across the floor,
From moorland crags and river banks,
Between the oak and sycamore,
A god’s crescendo echoed on.
Through bloodied winter, huddled fast,
A totem crucified in frost,
And carried dripping through the snows:
The tiny flecks of red on white.
The wren: from deity to death
Is energy, is life, is song.