A clever tailorbird with its needle beak
Harvests silken threads from branch & bough
She weaves the live green leaves to meet
Concealing nature’s quiet vow.
With spider and moth silk, and fibres
Punches the edge and pulls slender thread
She finely stitches a single, living cradle
Thus forms a warm and comfortable bed.
​No loom she needs, nor complex warp & weft
Her purpose is served by intellect and deft
Her craft is simple, ancient and discrete
The wind is silenced, and the air is sweet.
They dance and sing to win a partner’s grace
She lays smooth eggs inside the leafy cradle
With tender care they shield the shaded rest
And feed their hungry chicks in woven nest.
I watch them work with instinct’s steady hand
A flawless paragon that they truly command
Indeed a marvel at the seamstress of the tree
A humble yet masterpiece art, wild and free.
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