The Blackbird
The scent of decomposing leaves pervades the air,
a ghost-grey mist hangs, lifeless, on the branches; bare
from vehement leaf-stripping winds, awhile passed through,
denuding all; from Ash to morbid, toxic Yew.
Their once green leaves; now dark brown dead beneath my boots.
I close my eyes and hear almost no sounds, save some:
A Robin's song forewarning cruelty to come.
The fractious calling of a Tawny for his mate.
A clinking rattle of a slowly closing gate.
Faraway children playing indistinct pursuits.
Spring's vibrant fresh green shoots seem now so faraway,
memories; another time, a different day.
A serenading minstrel Blackbird; fresh and sweet,
the smell of grass, unfurling flowers, new lamb's bleat,
a mighty Oak-to-be put down its first fresh roots.
All will too soon be buried in a blanket, white,
as inevitably day turns to darkest night.
The Blackbird returns; with soft singing, tilted head.
I follow him beyond the bridge to where I'm led,
crossing to the delicate sound of lyres and flutes.
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