An imagined thrush

Song Thrush

Picture from old postcard collection

They welcomed me. I had come back
That eve somehow from somewhere far:
The April mist, the chill, the calm,
Meant the same thing familiar 
And pleasant to us, and strange too,
Yet with no bar.

The thrush on the oaktop in the lane
Sang his last song, or last but one;
And as he ended,  on the elm 
Another had but just begun

Edward Thomas