Poor Bird

Kitings and swoopings,
Such slender tether.
You would fly high
Of an evening
As if the sky was wine.
I found you with starlings
Pitched in lime;
In coal sheds,
My gawky blackbird;
In jails like aviaries.
I fledged you,
You fluttered in my hands
Like a nestling.
A peep, a preen
Of your red-breasted
Woolrich coat
And a dustoff
To dip your bill.
Where sleep you tonight
My father? In a rookery?
Not under Lucifer’s wing,
I pray.