30 JANUARY 1971, Page 18

The Thrush's Nest

(for Michael Kinsella)

Bramble, like barbed wire, Stitches the thicket tight, laces A net of leaves against the Sun: only the birds can pass.

Pinned high where the twigs Cross, it shapes from a blur; Still heart of the bush, darkness Parts slowly to let it through.

Her black pebble-eyes dazed With waiting, the mother snaps Alive at my presence, grabs Air, screaming—reveals her shining Hoard: luminous with heat, Four freckled ovals of perfect Sky, the skin of one threaded With cracks—pulsing with life.

Richard Ryan