The Blackbird


A plain little bird that sings with such unrestrained joy. I love the sound of this bird. I often awake early and sit listening to the dawn chorus and out of all the performers in that symphony the blackbird is the undisputed champion. This poem is in praise of our humble friend who gives me pleasure from spring to autumn every year.

The Black Bird.

Morning friend in garments plain

 Slips into the garden unseen

 Flits from bed to bed in turn

 To breakfast on some grub or worm

 And once he claims this repast

 Repays the tenants rent in part

 With music from his golden horn

 He whistles magic to the morn

 And perched on twig with full chest

 His song will far out do the rest

 For what he lacks in silver and gold

 He gives instead of tune so bold

 The creator made him dull and dark

 But gave him voice of some remark

 With his song he will praise the lord

 Our morning friend the Blackbird


© Dave Kavanagh @ 2015

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