I named her ‘the little blackbird’.
She followed at my heels each night
dived to the watering can, like rain,
as I splashed plants in failing light.
She hid her nest in our front bush,
then fledged three. When the sparrowhawk came
she drew him off, but smashed herself
into our windowpane.
Oh, years ago – What have we left
in those dry dusks her small feet stirred?
On each high roof, looper of light, a blackbird.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Alison
Brackenbury would be pleased to hear them.