As if suddenly there were no other sound,

as if the pleasure boats’ diesel engines,

and the odd raucous call from mallard or gull,

and the laughing chatter of humankind

were, like the weir, merely distant murmurings,

on the opposite bank of the river

more than fifty yards away, where snails abound

in the damp dark beneath the foliage,

a thrush begins its song. It cuts notes like

diamonds, a crystal aria, subduing

the air itself, on this summer solstice.

Exiled from denatured fields and hedgerows,

almost forgotten minstrel, rare diva

now, how we have missed you!