LARK
           
              blue as the blue dress
              birthday bright
              Far back in memory
              recalled
              deep in the coarse grass
              under the yellow gorse,
              I listen.
              He is grey as the running walls.
              My palm could hold him.
              High on the thin air
              untaught
              rising clean from the peat-rich
              sun-damp turf
              to feather all my nerve-bare joy
              with his unstillness.
              Singing away my life
              with each pulse of his
              perfect beak.

              Kathleen Jones
              1985
               

           
           
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