A Tuckingmill Bird Poem by Fay Slimm

My heart is astir with what this morning
I caught aloft under a bluebell sky.
A bird who trills high, yet smaller than small
Is it's frame, and seemed to be making reply
To my spirit which soared as I spied crest
Of gold above darkest large eye. The park
Which graces this valley will never best
The feathered perfection I saw, marking
His tiny terrain with sublime bird-talk.
That Goldcrest at Tuckingmill crowned my walk.