The Blackbird
YOUR jet-black feathers and orange-yellow beak
Hop-scotching merrily with avian mystique;
From Dawn's shrill chorus, amid the tangled briar
To a parting Twilight encore from the church's crooked spire.
We hear you in the garden when the working day is done,
When all the sap's-a-rising and the flowers chase the sun;
On lazy days, amid wine and temperatures of twenty,
Alighting on the stony wall with melodies a-plenty.
Yet when our coils are shuffled and we drift upon the air,
Our souls arrive in Paradise, but do not find you there;
And when the angels pluck their harps, discordantly and wrong,
We reincarnate back to earth, to listen to your song.
© Troy Southgate