Jackdaw Dance

I was finding sticks beneath ancient trees,

In the shady copse at the edge of the lawn,

To mark the dahlias, still in bloom,

But whose death by frost, would come quite soon, 

Though they blasted out peach and tropical coral,

Mexican vibrancy midst the gloom,

Orange and Barbie and bubble gum heat,

And greenish whites and pale primrose yellows, 

Ill fitting October’s afternoon,

In an English garden nine hundred years old,

Scented with compost and old leaf mould,

When I saw in the deep, azure sky above

A crowd of corvids speaking of love.

And I had a sensation I’d had before,

Of ancient peace and resistless calm,

And an overwhelming hippyish sense,

Almost embarrassing, hard to ignore,

Of oneness with the world around,

And a sense of a time before I was born.

And the jackdaws circling over head,

Neither cawed, nor carped, but crooned instead,

Like purring doves, or cats making greeting

And they gossiped and nattered, but seemed quite moral

In judgements they passed on their corvid fellows,
As they swirled in the air and floated and played,

Though they lazily mobbed a buzzard above them.

And the noise which they made was a gentle sound,

And the gentleness of it filled my head

And entered my soul and there remained,

Though the moment in relative terms was fleeting,

I knew the birds’ language and felt I loved them,

And that this pure love was greater by far,

Than the height of the sky as I lay on the ground,
Was greater than ever could be contained,
Or described or by poetry be conveyed,

So I listened to pure, cerulean blue,

Which danced with the birds, 

To a lost tune I knew.