Wren Days


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.




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