Winter Serenade


It is true, I tried to meet her in dreams
at some appointed tryst.

One night, in winter’s killing cold,
I was a bird
in a labyrinth of tangles.

There I sang to her lit window
with a bird’s unblinking vigilance,

my song like weightless, airborne wings,
pinions rowing a river of thermals.

Perched on a budless twig,
my favourite post,
my every note was a preened plume.

My songs were such
they would have pierced the heart
of any human.

And so I flew up, to sing on her sill

and she, hearing my song
looked out, alight with surprise,
as if she had never seen a man
become a bird.