WAXWINGS

           

 

                                        On this branch a siren trilling.

 

And that, a game-hen, squeaking in oil.

 

                                                                            There a bell-shaped, bell-coloured   noise,

 

         and everywhere a lick of red tongues,

 

 

                    a fire framing the hive.

 

                                                                    They light like

                                                           

                                                            demiquaver notes on staves                                                              

           of too-fast music,

 

                                                           bustle each other like

 

atoms on market day.

 

                                                                                                  So when a crack

                                                                                                                        of spring

 

                                     thunder catches

 

 

one                                             falling from             branch                         to  branch mid

 

                       

note: they shriek,             shivaree, swoop

 

            down note

 

                               ,

 

                                    their million   narrow blades

 

whetting                      their black                               boughs                        before

 

                        tatting the air to millionths.