Changes

The scratching cries of blustering birds.

The tickling breeze that gently heaves.

The branches sway to keep the time

Amidst the soft applause of leaves.

Now comes a dying nasal whine

And rasping clearing of the throat.

The cheap-chirp birds and whisper-leaves

Could not compete with billy goats.

And if I was to add my voice

To woodland multitudes,

I’d stay my tongue and think what noise

I’d splutter forth to contribute;

What buzzwords, bywords, hand-me-downs

Would suit the tenor of my theme;

Or if a loud and bestial shout

Could wake the forest from its dream.

The time has come for artifice

To shed the shadows of the past;

To build myself from ashen blocks

And find a new self fit to last.

So come, you changes, murder me,

I’ll turn and face the strange.

Revise and ruin all you see

Erase it all and set me free.