Blackbirds
There is a lull this evening when the world
holds its breath, the rain has stopped and the sun's
warm rays embrace all then slowly slip away
and colours in the garden become richer, deeper
and that's when our blackbird sings, five notes
five notes again, then seven then five,
piercing and startling the air
in clear brightening joy.
I recall a village in the Cotswolds
where we slept in a sandstone cottage,
golden in the late afternoon sun,
and the back garden with its rock wall looked
onto a field where rabbits hopped and a blackbird's
song shimmered the air into the evening. We ate
at a table flush with prosciutto and local cheeses
and toasted our travels with fine Merlot.
Now, I just read about those Russian missile
and drone attacks on a children's hospital in Kyiv.
One young lass with her hand blown off, another a leg.
Deformed for life. How brave you warriors
must feel... A crow caws to the falling night.
Merlot – French - the little blackbird
