Sparrow Song

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Hum, little bird, the dryadic song of my youth,

 

that which pours out from tawny-crested throat

the haunting anthem of our mud-soaked, woodland roads.

 

Let tiny wings unfurl from narrow-tufted body

to soar on winds of rain-soaked draught,

 

seeking shelter from the deluge in boughs

of oak and elm, far above the weed-strewn paths.

 

Sing to me again, little one, the stories of the

thirst-quenched soil and chirping, chattering wood ––

 

I am very far away now,

and, in my years, I have forgotten them. 

 

 

Training the Bees

after ‘training the bees’ by anna pugh, acrylic on board

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Whimsy! Like nothing else before ––

lured by sweet-scented honey the little ones

dance and jump through the dandelion hoop,

buzzing their joyous fairy-song with every flutter

and flap of gossamer wing. Nestling to rest on

sheaves of thistle and daisy, a hard day’s work is spent

on the twists and turns of buttercup daydreams and bumblebee

nursery rhymes –– a blithe, subliminal mastery of our jaunty flights of fancy.

Oh, what a life!

 

 

Pygmalion

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I wonder if unforgiving ivory

could ever be more than what it is ––

more than indifferent stone and dispassionate flesh

beneath my calloused sculptor’s hands.

For these hands that made you,

carved you, freed you

from that pearly stone

are fated to be yours,

inexorably.

​

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Helen is a history student and poet based in Dublin, with a nervous disposition and a fondness for jumpers and other knitted things. She enjoys writing about the sublime, romantic and nostalgic –– poetry from life, in all its many forms. When not writing, you can find her swearing at Dublin's rude and rather irreverent seagulls, or hosting tea parties with her stuffed animals, who are all very polite and supportive of her work.