Pen y llwyn—master of the coppice—
the Welsh thrush
is at his best in a sudden gale.
In the fiercest wind, there he is
defiantly
perched on the topmost branch singing
alone in all that wild swaying
up above the torn leaves.
They call him the stormcock
(size of the American robin)
with tawny, speckled breast and beak wide
with the lovely explosions of his clarinet.
But what's this urgent
singing all about?
His music cracks the howling air to reach
his distant mate . . . .
Storm joy.
There's a thrush that's singing
of the Christ in every crisis.
Are things that bad?
Then listen, friend.
For ringing out from the heart
of Jesus' last beatitude—
yes, in the fury of your own persecution—
comes his amazing command "Rejoice,
and be exceeding glad . . . ."
