Nimble as sparrows
Nineteen words
Flutter and bicker
To be heard

Nineteen sparrows
Balance on the line
Eyes like lasers
At feeding time

Fifty-two syllables
Buried in the earth
String them all together
Like gypsies braiding heather
Omens of the weather
Or a very special birth

That’s what goes on inside brain
Hundreds of tunnels
Waiting for a train
Words of pain and words of mirth
Fifty-two syllables buried
In the earth.

Precious seedlings
In a garden of delight
Some take root
And some take flight

One quick blackbird
All on his own
Finds a jewelled necklace
And takes it home.

© Robert Burkall Marsh