Woody left me

by john clare

Somewhere in the grove across the way
There is a knocking heard on the pine wood.
Bark is dropping on the needles in furious disarray,
As the broken line flaps in the force of December wind.
Sometime today when I turned Woody took flight,
It was destined I know, the day I repaired his wing
And how lately he beat upon the wind with all his might,
That eventually I would have to cut his string.
But such is the impatience of the wild birds on strings,
Never content to be your friend under such conditions.
Perhaps he will recall who it was who fixed his wing...
I miss you Woody, believe me,
I would have cut your string.