Blackbird by Alan Carroll

There’s a blackbird mocking me from a nearby gnarled sycamore tree
As I sit outside the graveyard with the car windows down
She whoops and hollers out across the heaving meadow
And her mate responds to every needy sound

The bar across the car park stops caravans coming in
A flat denial perched atop the gate
Only room here for hearse and cars
As they carry the dead unto their final fate

This road is quiet with an occasional passer
And a thrush is now crashing the blackbirds gig
She skips and hops between treated wooden stumps
And puffs out her chest to make herself look big

A few minutes more and I’ll be at your grave
And say a soft prayer and bleed a silent tear
As the distant hum of traffic floats on the weak wind
Still bringing that blackbirds song to my ear…

Alan Caroll is a writer from Cellbridge.


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