This poem is the Darkling Thrush,
a dull bunch of feathers hunched on a branch.
thunder threatens,
the wet wind flings the rain,
and the squinting thrush puffs up to explain
that Hope has not yet left him.
he is all conviction and courage
he believes –
but he’s perched just over our heads.
the message is missed by most.
few speak thrush
(it sticks in the throat)
so we admire his voice: brighter than brass
It’s nice, compared to the weather.
This poem might be the butcher’s boy Thomas
Clutching a knife,
and a bird lying dead in the mud.
blood running red and into the puddles
diffusing liquid life
all for the source of a sound.
would Thomas believe what he found?
Author notes
Based on Thomas Hardy's Darkling Thrush and Emily Dickinson's Split the Lark. For a creative writing class. I am nervous about this one - hopefully it stands up to criticism.
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