Poetry Journal

Issues / Volume 5 Issue 1 , July 2015


Wren’s Electric Field Strength

John Kinsella

  Out of the furze and fuchsias 
      to whisper sweet nothings,
  wren pivots as fast and sharp 
      as thought. With the domes
  sending out high volts-per-metre charges,
      a house comes available. 
  Wren says, I’m resident year round, 
      and will greet you here 
  on St Stephen’s day. I won’t die 
      at your door, I will fly 
  below radar. And I say: I am not one 
      for the old ways, and for
  what it’s worth, I’ll watch out for you—
      nobody will put you 
  in a box, stick you on a beribboned
      holly branch, bury you 
  with a red cent. We never required 
      Gothic in these parts, 
  says the Wren, the intricate vaulting 
      of the hedges suffices, 
  and it always aspires up beyond 
      the mountaintop. A gang 
  of boys passes by, striking hedges 
      with hurleys, wary 
  of the girls walking ten steps behind.