an ebony cane with a silver tip
Leaves drape shadows over wood
Carved like stone where angels stood
Darkness like a veil encloses
empty soil where once bloomed roses
Under tree trunk thick and strong
a desolate thrush cries out in song
'Come back, come back my love,
thou art as pretty as the stars above.'
Alas for he, love is unrequited
But he knows not, so is truly delighted
He finds below his perch in tree
a silvered cane from she to he
he realises little and not enough
This gift 'tis not but useless fluff
He is not a thieving bird,
nor can she sing single word
they can look and pass a glance
but for anything else there is not a chance
So thrush sings on, sings on,
and magpie wings on, wings on,
never to meet, never to speak
totally dissimilar except for their similar beaks
And somewhere someone will hear with glee
The ballad of the thrush-in-tree
They'll pause not once from their quiet stroll
knowing their cane lies safe in sheltered knoll
Magpie Tales
