The Songbird

The songbird sits in his nest perched,
Aloft the swaying silver birch.
And if he looks down now, he'll see,
The wandering mind of love's absentee.

For winter has come upon the land,
The once blue waters, ice upon sand.
Though chilled he is as he stares to the firth,
All but his heart is warmed by fiery hearth.

Yea he wanders bleak and weary,
For to seek an end to timeless query.
And yet no answers on earth he'll find,
To still the tempest of his mind.

The songbird whistles upon his nest,
To ease the sorrow that fills his breast.
And though he hears that lilting sound,
No rest on earth his heart has found.