--------------
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 bird
Was caged for songThat prisoned it might thrill its tongue,
Make beauty heard
Though wax unwell,
A dismal, shabby Philomel.
As sprinkling dew
Its droplet callScatters on the wind’s busy maul;
With a king’s hue
And lively breath
Its freshets rinse the thistled heath.
====================
© August 2013