Blackcap

It is bubbling from the shrub again.
April. A fair week of it.
With the grace of sunshine and mercy
Of stillness. I wake early and hear it.

It is like a fond voice all but forgotten.
It is like dusting off an old recording.
It is like remembering that even in absence
There is presence in another place
Or that the song you sang for a season
(before winter, or dark, or the cloying damp)
Has reason to return.