Young John Clare
            Helpston, Northamptonshire, 1806

Not often do I find a nest fallen
Among seedpods in autumn, three blue-white
Eggs broken, rags of rucked and yellow flesh
And hinge of beak still beckoning ants, but
One egg sealed, the fluids of birdmaking
A milky galaxy bundled inside—
So smooth and dry I want to swivel it
Wholly into my mouth despite dirt-flecks,
Lave the vowel-sheen off the oval shell,
Tumble that globule of starling within
Until its unspooled trill begins to boil,
Slips its bony case and kindles my voice.
O then would I sing! I would have no choice.

Copyright © 2008 Michael Waters All rights reserved
from Crab Orchard Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission