The blackbird

A bit of self-indulgence for one of my favourite birds.


You sang your small heart to the summer,

Filled the woods with an endless song.

The soul of the orchard and hedgerow,

Your magic swelled all summer long.

But you wore out your heart with your singing,

Your brittle bones failed, not your art,

Winter’s white hand took your sweet songs,

And its cold fingers stilled your warm heart.

The roses have withered and fallen,

You have flown to the Islands of Bliss,

Where blackbirds still sing in the rose trees,

In that world so much gentler than this.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

16 thoughts on “The blackbird”

  1. I just love this image of the blackbird’s small heart. I think I will be looking at our blackbirds differently now…

    1. I love blackbirds. They sing so beautifully from the beginning of the spring all through the summer. And their behaviour is absolutely crazy sometimes. Watching them is a joy.

      1. I know. But I just had a vision of the poor thing slowly freezing to death and being all alone. It felt sad to me.

      2. Know what you mean. But have you noticed you hardly ever see dead birds just lying there, dead? There must be dozens of them die every day in the area you cover when you take the dog for a walk, but you never see the bodies. Where do they go if not to the otherworld?

      3. Good point! That is so true. Well, they are said to be the messengers between worlds…

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