Evening Blackbird

 

He is there every evening

at dusk fall. On the rowan

outside my window.

 

He is calling his bride,

or so they say. But where is she?

I never get to see her.

 

The vivid red berries aren’t forming yet,

but he still knows when to rise

in song, calling.

Tuning his wireless receiver

to the tunes of spring. At last.

 

A hard day at work, I’ve had

and I come home tired, a victim.

 

Is that really you, merula?

How can it be?  I saw you

in the beech tree copse.

A cluster of black feathers.

Feline footprints.

And across the country churchyard

on top of the great yew.  Chiming.

 

Swooping down to the gate

to greet me with a half-cocked face,

with a flourish of primaries.

 

The rector hasn’t seen me.

He is tending

among his flowers and his heather.  Busying himself.

I pass him by again

and open my gate.

 

I disturbed you

from the lawn larder with heavy footsteps.

But you fly to your look-out post

once more.

 

 

© Andrew Williams 1990

 

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