To Mrs B

To Mrs B

A bird. Just a garden bird.

Yet my heart aches to know you’re dead.

We saw you hunched against the garden wall

Eyes shut, not moving yet breathing

As we played badminton in the sun.

Worried, we played on,

Thinking you were scared to move

While we were there.

But when we’d finished playing

And left you to yourself to fly away

You didn’t. We checked

And there you were still.

So we prepared a shoe box

And picked you gently up

Though with difficulty

Because you scuttled silently away

But obviously could not fly.

We placed the box on the garage floor

Where you’d be safe from predators,

Left you food and water, shut the door

And hoped you’d simply knocked your wing

And would recover.

But next morning you were dead,

Lying under the car and I cried for the loss of you.

My Mrs Blackbird, Mrs B.

So beautiful with your dark flecked feathers

Your bright eyes now dusty with death.

Just two days ago I’d watched you

Splash about in the bird bath

With such pleasure, as you often did.

I’ll miss you so much, my Mrs B

But what I’ll try to remember

Is not the stiff body void of all

That made you you:

The bright eyes, the perky movements

The joy in sending the water showering

In glittering drops,

Shaking your feathers dry

Then flying off.

Thank you for all the happiness you gave us

Just being you.