Gert Strydom
The pale brown thrush
Pale brown the thrush scratches in the garden
is pecking at earthworms that wriggle around
before suddenly it trumpets out its joy,
but when an old car rattles down the street
it ascends fluttering into the blue sky,
lands on a branch of the old oak tree,
is silent while school children are raising funds,
as if sits for moments dreaming there,
before its song of joy again streams from its throat,
its twittering cuts through the afternoon’s dull weariness.
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