https://youtu.be/dUrlU8C8vjA

Enjoy this reading of the poem The Bird Song of Wayreth Forest by Michael Williams. This poem first appeared in Leaves from the Inn of the Last Home, released in 1987.

Buy Leaves from the Inn of the Last Home: https://amzn.to/39TClwb

The Bird Song of Wayreth Forest

Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfectedWhere we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green,Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparentAs glass, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

Beneath these branches the willing surrender of movement,The business of birdsong, of love, left on the bordersWith all of the fevers, the failures of memory.Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected.

And light upon light, light as dismissal of darkness,beneath these branches no shade, for shade is forgottenIn the warmth of the light and the cool smell of the leavesWhere we grow and decay; no longer, our trees ever green.

Here there is quiet, where music turns in upon silence,Here at the world’s imagined edge, where clarityCompletes the senses, at long last where we beholdRipe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent.

Where the tears are dried from our faces, or settle,Still as a stream in accomplished countries of peace,And the traveler opens, permitting the voyage of lightAs air, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfectedWhere we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green,Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparentAs air, as the heart in repose this lasting day.