The Blackbirds

Three blackbirds in the grey-dull day
Chased themselves through the tree’s bare splay,
Again, again, like kittens feigning,
They sped and spatted in mock complaining;
Throughout the tree like motes they spun,
Then perched at peace, their jaunting done.

For days the maple’s brown-bone crown

Was criss-crossed by their ups and down;
February winds and rains were piercing,
But still they bounced in deft rehearsing
For March and April’s balmier days
When pastime fun turns warrior ways.

For then with mate and chicks to feed

These blackbirds scouring tree and mead
Will have no truck with ploughshare things,
With hop and skip and wag of wings;
Urgent to fledge there’ll be no playing
Only ambush and noisy ’fraying.

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© February 2015