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.