Fled is that Birdsong

There are some
who get excited
when they hear
a bird on a bough
in the evening,
singing a song
dinosaur cousins
did a dance to,
composed aeons
of aeons before
wild men in skins
caught the bug
and passed it on
down the line.
They are people
who remind me
of someone who
patiently pores
over the fabric
of an unfinished
poem, tailoring it
over and over,
to make it mean
what is meant
by the anguish
of endeavours
to pin down a
birdsong moment.


© Nemo 2023
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