Waking to the blackbird’s song –
insisting, so it seems, on something close to joy and praise…
the sun’s just breaking through the morning mist;
the smell of coffee and hot bread rolls,
the gentle stir of household come to life:
it’s a good day, the best of days, right now.
Showered, with the inner glow of a man who’s
just those few and precious minutes ahead of schedule
and thus with goodwill there to share –
and what?
Is goodwill quite enough, as you bounce into the office,
or (o hero) into the morning classroom, or
the matey pride of factory floor?
This is the tricky crux of this poem, and who am I…
now in this summer morning’s glow of goodwill to all men
– and to all womankind, rejoicing themselves and you
in summer’s clothes – is there a place
within this glow, for, go on say it, joy?
And if joy, is there, then, gratitude?
And if there’s gratitude, is there, then, praise?
Meanwhile
the blackbird
just sings.
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