by Adam Clark

Created on: March 04, 2009   Last Updated: March 10, 2010

Songs Of The Hedgebird:

Before the morning symphony

when you hear sounds of tuning crickets,

of warbling wind and humming bees,

while fluttering in the thickets

a chirp, a whistle, a rustling of feathers

bring the branches of the briar

bustling about hither and dither

as the birds prepare their choir.

In a lonely cottage on a dewy meadow

next to a window stood a cage.

In its bamboo bars a small bright yellow

Parakeet with breast of sage

proudly perched on man made branch

staring through the window frame

at all the life along the ranch

listening to the sounds that came.

But one sound, one song, one soothing voice

soared through the throng and caught his ear.

She sang so lovely that he'd rejoice

each morning when her voice appeared

and brought him tales of far off lands,

hide and seek games in the cumuli,

of traveling across the ocean spans

and a heaven that awaits in the sky.

Each day the song bird in the hedge

sang to him his hopes and dreams

and he knew just past the window ledge,

beyond these narrow bamboo beams

was a place where life was merry,

where he could make his family,

where the heavens were his aviary

and his home was a tall safe tree.

But the cage gate still remained closed

and his once pretty wings had been clipped

With each day he felt more like a ghost

and each night his lonely heart wept

for he knew he could never be freed.

His lot in life had already been chose.

Though he dreamt someday he'd succeed

the cage gate still remained closed.

Still each morning the song bird

she sang to him, songs of life and love

and with each lovely note that he heard

he knew her voice would be enough

to bring him the joys of lands far away,

of games in the clouds and trips across seas,

of watching your children laugh and play

and holding your lover warm in the breeze.

She sang to him one last song

on the last lonely day of his life.

She brought dreams that lasted as long

as forever and in them were a wife

and children and friends by his side,

a bright blue sky where he could roam free,

his once clipped wings now full and wide

and with each morning came a symphony

But before the morning symphony

there comes sounds of tuning crickets,

the warbling wind, the humming bees

and somewhere in the thickets

a chirp, a whistle, a rustling of feathers

bustling the branches of the briar

jittering about hither and dither

as the little yellow bird joins the choir.

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