Song thrush singing on a high tree… | Listen now...

This morning my mother’s spirit comes to sing for me
from a high tree, many years after her death. She sings
in the form of a song thrush on a high branch in clear air.
Or, is it the shade of a young woman I knew once on a ship,
who killed herself unwittingly. She sings from dawn till breakfast
and on towards eleven, though every note thrown to the suburb
so enthusiastically, reminds me of dream-waking to its sound
at daybreak, its clarion call, heaven on earth, so freely given
from its widened beak, and bursting speckled chest, calling.