Garden blackbirds typically find the highest antenna of a London village and perch their proud, musical chests, and warble a mating song with no discernible ab ab verse structure. Its song lingers more in the free verse category, because it consists of a wildness that is incomprehensible to our relatively numbed modern senses. Its song is whimsical, unexpected, but the voice of the blackbird is as piercing as laughter, and as creative. Finding myself attaching the blueprints of my own poems according to birdprints found in nature has provided for me a boundlessness in my writing that I could not even invent. Why invent, when it surrounds me, with its senses, harbouring to be told? If Monet could stand for hours knee deep in waterlilies then he was on to something.