Song of a Tuneless Nightingale

In the Garden of Verse trills many a nightingale
Of the advent of spring
Fertile, bountiful, pregnant.
Of clouds turgid with the fluid of life,
Of rain, and of lush green meadows,
Of starlit, silvery nights

Silenced are the mutterings
Of those in whose veins courses
The brutal, parched thirst
And ravenous hunger
Of searing summer unquenched.
Their deep, frightening voices
Out of place in Eden.

Autumn permitted to weep
Only in the silent shedding of leaves
And winter mute, frozen
By the chilling demise of the senses.

Here may be sung
Only chaste, bejewelled verse
Set to uplifting metre.
Shut are the doors
To tuneless wolf whistles
Prurient, irreverent, defiant
Yet far more spontaneous and heartfelt...