Wrens

here I go
into the wide gardens of
wastefields blue glass clear glass
and other rubbishes blinking from the

dust from the fox tracks among the
roots and risings of
buttercups joe pye honey

suckle the queen’s
lace and her

blue sailors

the little wrens
have carried a hundred sticks into

an old rusted pail and now they are
singing in the curtains of leaves they are

fluttering down to the bog they are dipping

their darling heads down to wet

their whistles how happy they are to be
diligent at last

foolish birds