Don’t believe the blackbird.
He’s precocious, starts to sing
false golden trails of promises
of love and nests and hatching
in New Year’s twilight.

Never mind old cock-robin.
North wind or snow, his shout
and his puffed bright chest
are war, not love; “get the hell out,
I’ll keep my garden.”

Don’t trust the bald-faced rook.
Shaking wings, he croaks pretence
of song, but he’s a fraud
with his blueblack iridescence;
postures, but won’t build.

But let the truth-teller sing
his moorish music; haunted flute
blown here on the southern gales.
The sober bird in the tweed suit,
the curlew is spring.