John W. Sexton (Ireland)

Ode to the Nightingale
 
Which of us fine poets, really, really,
has ever heard a nightingale? Not one?
Which of us have seen its earth-brown nearly;
caught sight of it, a flight of clod in sun?
Heard its soft wheet, its tac, its warbled song?
Who, if any of us, have trod it down?
Walked upon its nest, crushed its gold-beaked young?
Why do these awkward questions make us frown?
Nightingale, you’re the earthen bird: earthen.
You’re the one we dream of and then forget.
You wake us, are silent as we waken:
we’re mystified by our sense of regret.
Nightingale, we’re the ones that you have sung,
sung; the cat’s-cradles of our minds unstrung.
 

from the collection Futures Pass

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