Of Birds And Men Poem by david e golledge

I hear the call of a cuckoo
disturbing the 5am still.
The bird is hidden but I know how it appears,
perceive it's Platonic form,
it's plummage and propensity to plunder.

I see a family of swallows, distant,
diving and swooping, resting
in the upper boughs of a Sycamore.
I do not hear them but I imagine
their clamour, have catalogued it
with a million other cacophanies.

I look at you, wondering
at your noises and characteristics,
despair at our inscrutable blueprint.
This impenatrable design that makes
full understanding impossible.