Two blackbirds in a white thorn bush,
The long dark winter night,
Shelter from the Sleet and Snow,
Passing showers that come and go
or tempest in its night.
A lone bush in the Craiglands
By someone planted there,
Leaning from the wind that blows,
Year after year buds and grows,
For all yet scraggy and bare.
Standing alone through the ages
Awaiting the dawning of spring,
Guarding little buds that sleep
Fragrant, Blooming there I keep.
Until the woodlands ring.
Those around me laboured well,
Now dimmed by mildew of age,
The Threshing Flail, The Iron Spade,
By which the lives of men were made,
Pass on to rest, die, Rust and fade.
The lone bush whispers of the past
Of sunshine and the gloom,
Nature's wonder stranger still,
New Fledglings come the nest to fill
And Time goes gliding on.
Back to index