Whither the Linnet?

Whither the Linnet?

Through bramble‑kissed hedgerows, where the blackthorn sighs,
the linnet flits—a flash of rust‑tinged breast,
its melody a soft, bewildered hymn
that drifts on summer’s lazy, amber breeze.

It darts above the barley‑golden fields,
where skylarks pour their liquid silver notes,
and pauses on a thistle’s downy crown,
as if to listen to the earth’s low pulse.

Perhaps it seeks the quiet of the copse,
where oak and ash entwine their ancient limbs,
or maybe it chases the fading light
that lingers over the river’s gentle bend.

Whither, O linnet, does your restless wing
carry you now? To distant moor or town?
Whatever path you choose, your song remains—
a timeless echo of the British countryside.