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