Tuesday, 13 May 2014

Dead Thrush

Beside the small
Robinia tree, upon
The lawn, for
All to see,
The carcass of
a thrush, who
Sang his songs
In groups of
Three. He celebrated
Spring as loudly
As he could.
His happiness expressed
With head thrown
Back and beak
Open wide, and
The puumping of
His speckled chest.
Now he's dead.

In giving voice
He seemed to
Encourage us - demand
That we rejoice
The great magnificence
Of all creation,
And shake off 
Winter's maungy mood.

But now he
Lies, crucified, wings
Spread out at
His side, entrails
Sprawled upon the
Grass. The bastard
Cat has killed
Him - the spirit
Of spring.  There'll
Be no resurrection.
No eggs in
Any nest, built
With she, whom
Surely he had
Wooed, with his
Songs about love
On the top
Of the tree
And life and babies
And all that's
Dear to us -
Groups of three.

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