Death of the Blackbirds

Gold beak firmly shut,

eye still bright

in the deep fur of the softly rounded head,

you lie

by your delicate brown mate,

neat and self-possessed.




Incredible,

in April of all months,

when the year shakes itself awake,

that death should so absorb you.




Now, in the motionless and inarticulate

world of my remembering,

shut out from green gardens, bright

with almond and sweet cherry,

noisy with birdsong,

you exist

encased in the silence of words,

eye still bright

gold beak firmly shut.







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