Blackbirds

 

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