Bird's nest
Here in the ivy,
cupped, a light,
an aery, faery thing;
no artist could make better,
no mother could do more;
so much intelligence,
so much love;
every threaded fibre
a flight of love.
Is it fulfilled, or waiting,
or plundered of its life?
too precious to destroy,
this cradle of intelligence.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
No comments until now.