Wings buffet the air, in the din of that ramshackle shed.
They rise to meet the pair, by the gnawing hunger led.
A clash without bloodshed, a riot of fancy and rock.
Corn-chaos there widespread. His heart filled with love for his flock.

In war ’tis said, all’s fair, but alas, no demi-god bred.
No finery of language there, writ of night minstrel or godhead.
Nor seafarers left for dead, that lone bird’s soul to mock.
“Da’s geen zwaan” he said. His mind rises up with the flock.

Where is the glory rare? Be there greatness tho’ unsaid?
What cause for such fanfare? Its praises left unread.
This low bird as aforesaid, not eagle, raven or hawk.
Yet none greater in its stead. His soul at one with the flock.

Though spirit long ago fled,
His lovéd since bested by clock,
Wheresoever I may tread,
My memories alight with the flock.

Humbleness they bear, pent and supped on stale bread.
A furor without despair, for their cagéd and their dead.
In darkness perched o’erhead, while bully boots beat on the block,
Their breasts aflutter with dread. His heart filled with fear for the flock.

No muted coos they dare, ‘midst the corn dust and feathers spread.
A b(r)and their mark to bear, all dignity at last shed.
He carried those days in his head and fear for the fateful knock.
All left threadbare and ragged. His mind always there with the flock.

High atop the stair, away from the tyranny sped.
It was his merciful care, which to their freedom led.
And though it went unsaid, for of then he did not talk.
Up from silent deathbed, his soul soared away with his flock.

Though spirit long ago fled,
His lovéd since bested by clock,
Wheresoever I may tread,
My memories alight with the flock.

– for David, on his birthday, August 2018