The Coel and I

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The Coel and I

Sonnet — An Invocation to The Master #245

How many aches does it continually feel,
That tiny feathery pain wracked breast?
Perched on tree like love’s true sentinel,
The forlorn coel besides an empty nest.

How sweetly poignant its untiring cries
That no scribe can put in annals of song,
For who can range through longing’s skies
Cold-hearted and pen of love gone wrong?

How many miles of air it scouts eagerly
Between the extents of a handful trees,
This meagre patch is its entire country
Where it found love that it must lose.

I would yet speak to Thee of that teary eye
But then I realised the bereaving coel was I.