Winter tree
You stand with antlers raised
They say
‘Where are your leaves?’
Then to their neighbour
‘All his birds have flown –
What kind of music
Stirs in dry dead wood?’
No more songs for free
Is what they mean –
Give us all
A climate of amusement from machines
But birds have private language
When no-one is about
Their discourse goes like this –
‘Absence is the mystery
Of Love’s perpetual presence’
Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer
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