the red bird's haunting song

no one recalls the red bird's haunting song

in dead of winter but it marks the spring

the creature's small and yet its voice is strong

what we discover when we fall among

the hordes who struggle to avoid the sting

(no one recalls the red bird's haunting song

but has a sense that they are drawn along

into the silence) is the sharp high ring

the creature's small and yet its voice is strong

enough to to let  us know that we belong

in this strange place where all our hopes may cling

no one recalls the red bird's haunting song

and yet when choruses turn to a throng

we want so urgently our hearts to fling

the creature's small  and yet its voice is strong

enough for us to know it is not wrong

to feel its force and want ourselves to sing

no one recalls the red bird's haunting song

the creature's small and yet its voice is strong

each normal plight

whatever happens there is no regret

for tempests that  have shredded new-leaved trees

awakening the youthful from their ease

into a present that is all upset

where each is cast at once deep into debt

not knowing whom to help nor whom to please

frozen in place by the harsh sky's decrees

and driven only to hard fear and fret

still there are signs that we have not been told

all that we need in order to get by

the simple passage of each normal plight

instead we're warned to be urgent and bold

focus inhuman danger in the eye

but not be lured by any trick of light

when good folk all agree

long toil will end when good folk all agree

on what is just and how the work divides

and on this morning we all wake up free

so many years that each lack harmony

we seemed only to wait for changing tides

long toil will end when good folk all agree

on how we fare and how we stand to see

the ones who move or that which still abides

and on this morning we all wake up free

the music plays with skill and constancy

while one who would have punished simply hides

long toil will end when good folk all agree

on codes of honour sitting by the sea

watch as the last bad soldier changes sides

and on this morning we all wake up free

so now we gather under an old tree

to give our promises and choose our guides

long toil will end when good folk all agree

and on this morning we all wake up free

the simple magics

when we are lost in rapture at the sight

of the spring flowers at last fully blown

we are then healed down to the very bone

of the last vestiges of winter's blight

so too when we have passed beyond the night

into another domain of the known

where once again we cease to be alone

we can be certain that the world is right

the simple magics are the ones most true

not to feel terror at the change of time

yet to be awed that life returns again

in all those places that the sun makes new

so we rejoice in the slow upward climb

and let our bodies cast away their pain

entry of the dart

where all the edges reach into the heart

are no clear corners nor a single sign

that time is changing the dividing line

is never crossed yet all are kept apart

by the hard means of some still arcane art

which the most foolish will insist divine

or claim as kindly warm tender benign

although they bleed from entry of the dart

we're far into the strange realm of the blind

where all the rules evil and perverse

and every bullet seems to find its mark

dead centre but the lying human mind

insists reality can't be adverse

that all is light down here deep in the dark

matters we may know

in all our doings there’s a rule we make

about the bounds beyond which we won’t go

those limits of the matters we may know

or of the facts in which we may partake

like the good flints that sharpen when they flake

or that swift stream with hidden deeper flow

beneath the mountain with the secret glow

all of the places that we can’t forsake

within each heart are truths that none may speak

yet in our song they’re vibrant in their call

to warm the spirit and release the mind

allowing us the harmony to seek

beyond the power of the strong and tall

right into where the force of love must bind

the seats of honour and the high domain

all of our answers turn out to be true

though journeys start and end in pouring rain

there comes a time to pause and take the view

our knowledge is constrained by what is new

not by the old nor yet by thoughts of gain

all of our answers turn out to be true

since what we've done must constitute a coup

in favour of the honest and the plain

there comes a time to pause and take the view

of all the folk whose minds may yet construe

the simple vision that when we entrain

all of our answers turn out to be true

both to our hearts and to those who are due

the seats of honour and the high domain

there comes a time to pause and take the view

when all is clear and the noon sky full blue

we are redeemed by virtue of our pain

all of our answers turn out to be true

there comes a time to pause and take the view

all our limbs have bled

in what new name are honours to be read

by those who fall along the weary road

bearing the last and most unwanted load

of fear and horror no unblemished head

do we acknowledge all our limbs have bled

leaking the symbols of a hated code

while it was plain that nothing could corrode

either the cover or the weight of dread

but there's a message in the signal flame

as we who watch may come to understand

far past all bearing yet within our care

are those who know the truth is not a game

that all good matter comes within a hand

but must go free to rise up in the air

set the message straight

when all is measured time begins to grate

upon the senses then we have to start

a different sort of journey where the part

that makes our human feeling more than freight

is what's required to set the message straight

not only in the realms of work and art

but so the honest signal might depart

from deep inside to past the furthest gate

not every cloud is signal of new rain

or so we learn from waiting as each night

the sigh of wind brings us no fresh relief

from all our suffering and the hard pain

nor are the killer birds disturbed in flight

nor yet the door secured against the thief

fate may be a liar

here is a dragon that breathes golden fire

burning a message across the dull sky

telling us all that fate may be a liar

although we are the ones who still aspire

to honour in a world where all seems dry

here is a dragon that breathes golden fire

a vision that combines beauty and ire

reminder that some final truth is nigh

telling us all that fate may be a liar

that in the end both pain and joy are higher

than we expect or might ask to supply

here is a dragon that breathes golden fire

a mark of fear but still it is not dire

there's more above than we know to espy

telling us all that fate may be a liar

that is the burden of the early crier

who warns that those who care will come to die

here is a dragon that breathes golden fire

telling us all that fate may be a liar

their despairing trade

if there are ways to measure all the tale

in years of story how the shapes are made

without an edge of humour being frayed

by passing breeze or rough attacking gale

you'd say that we must in this wise assail

the aged creators of the human braid

for all the crimes of their despairing trade

before we mark their effort with a fail

no truths have been discovered by our kind

without an effort to disturb the soil

uproot the weeds and plant a better seed

so that the newer products of keen mind

emergent in the end from bitter toil

can match the urge exactly to the deed