The blackbirds have come back to do their thing
to throw their sudden weight and wing
The blackbirds have come back to tell their tales
in territorial notes and scales
to wheel and spin
and squabble near the garden bins
and sing and sing, they’ve come to sing
and fling themselves at not very much o’clock.
Their songs rise twice in the easterly meadow
above the upturned faces
they tell of decoded motifs
in the wild strangulation of bramble
They tell me there are ways to escape
through the thicket of opinions
into wide open spaces.
Alongside the stub of traffic feuds.
summer interludes of songs, each twilight.
must infuse the gardens into meditation bells
I walk across to find him alone, glazed with sound
beating his breast from the rooftop surround
from the hedge and here, and now
and there from the blankness of lawn.
His song inflates
The four corners which are
strung with a net of noise
and the air dilates and is poised
to the very last echoing round.
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