Jews Harp Twang Poem by Clive Culverhouse

there is something about
the simplistic shape of a conundrum
an ancient voice in modern mouth
in cartloads for the few to quell
where ice finding comfort in flames
many a throat bending breath
singing like electric birds of paradise
fully charged and chirping
hum and twang and cooing purr
songbirds, my blackened raven
thaw from towers, steel beauty, caw
across tropics, canopies and solitudes
sweet openings to a midnight's play
oh warm to my lips, my songbird, warm
we fill each other, marry