To pen some words on Nightingales seems crude.
It’s all been done before, or so I’m told.
The ultimate romantic poet’s food;
pastiche regurgitated, oversold.
The male birds sing at night from just one tree
while females move around and listen in
to each guy’s voice in turn, thereby to see
which one their fluttering little heart will win.
But yet you’d think his plumage would be green
or red — exotic colourful display.
Instead he’s drab brown; barely can be seen.
A cool seducer of the night, I say!
To put that song in such a modest bird
was genius — the best I’ve ever heard.
© Alan Morrison, 2014