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.