Song

I am sorry I have been so lax about posting for national poetry month.  Here is something from (in my opinion) one of the greatest living poets:

A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes. 

There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens.