David Rowbotham

Awesome, alone, simple, the involved soul
is the unseen instrument
in whatever wonder is seen; and the wren pipes
in the rosebush its consent.

This, my first wren, is the first still.
As a boy I gathered it up
to flutter in my heart; and Brooklyn Bridge
is mighty like a harp.

This, one of my last of sights, shall be long:
Manhattan in filigrees
that gather the sounding island; and the arch that scales
Atlantic lattices.

Fingers can’t help scanning the wings that pluck
chords from the continents
that we span with O wondering eyes; and now, like a wisp,
a funnel of Plymouth glints.

Then the armoured hammer of the Matterhorn thuds,
like instrumental men,
Europe to all white thorn; and my soul takes care
in the rosebush with the wren.