Wren


Is it possible to love a wren?
Must love own its object?
Or seek to own it?
For the wren takes
‘What is hidden is more alluring’
To the n-th degree.
Glimpse here,
Blur there.
Then gone, but not forgotten.
Is it enough
For love to love her wild flight,
Wishing nothing but good
To one going, going, gone,
Without even acknowledging
The looks of love
She is receiving?

By Henry Berry

brown wren hiding in gray branches


Henry Berry lives in a rambling old house in the rural Vale of York, England. His writing focuses on external and interior, mental landscapes inspired by intimate contact with the countryside immediately around his home. His blog can be found at www.henryberry.blogspot.com/

Photo by Rosemarie Kappler

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