With crimson face
And golden wings
The goldfinch prinked on groundsel sings;
Its ruff of lace,
Its toffee breast,
Ripple in the wind’s sun-hot zest.
King Henry’s stuffs,Bejewelled and stiff,
Encased his pomping strut as if
Grace were white cuffs
And canting grin
And not this finch ablaze in whin.
Yet once this birdWas caged for song
That prisoned it might thrill its tongue,
Make beauty heard
Though wax unwell,
A dismal, shabby Philomel.
As sprinkling dewIts droplet call
Scatters on the wind’s busy maul;
With a king’s hue
And lively breath
Its freshets rinse the thistled heath.
====================© August 2013