He kept watch outside the back door
from a skeleton forsythia choked
past hope by an alpha jasmine.
Buffed his beak on a knuckley twig,
flounced his tail, bounced down
onto the terrace for a wary recce.
Gran told tales of Celtic lore, of a blackbird’s
luck, how they augured weather,
death. In a clutch of days, he
wheedled a cranny in my heart. His
mystic whistles wooed me, swelled
my chest with an ache to shout out secrets.
When I hipped a basket
to the carousel, he flustered
back into the bush. I pegged out
socks, a tea towel, baby vest. His
onyx eyes, kohled with gold, reminded me
of you. Discovering
his taste for mealy worms, I bought
a tub, ripped off cardboard, bubble
wrap, prised open the lid, scattered
desiccated corpses. He scrutinised
my every move, his tail flick
the black fan flirt of a señorita.
He fluttered to the worms, bobbed
his head from side to side as if
negotiating traffic, gobbled.
A sparrow came. The blackbird
chased him off. The sparrow’s hen
risked a peck and scarpered. So did a wren.
He greets me now with a chuckle,
and a whirr of wings. When I
dribble out his feast, he quivers
on a flower pot, trumpets
a salute, swoops in to dine.
The forsythia is showing shoots.
I miss the wren.
panoply, a literary zine 