Song to the Sunset
I was going to write a post whingeing about various things (the ridiculously cold weather for the time of year, still having a cold—-basically, all cold related), but then I heard the blackbird, and now I don’t feel like complaining.
He was sitting at the very top of the fir tree in our garden, facing West. The sky was dramatically dark, and against the lowering clouds and his own black feathers, his beak was set ablaze by the setting sun. And he was singing. Gorgeous, bubbling, liquid gold notes dripping and splashing from his beak, cascading into the garden. Lazy, sweeping bass notes, trills and rolls and achingly sweet crescendos.
We were half way through our dinner, but I had to open the patio doors (despite the cold) and just sit and listen to him, watching his burning beak open wide to pour out light against the coming dark.
Now I know what so inspired Kate Bush.
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I knew what it brought to mind, after 2 paracetamol I found it:
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise"
Paul McCartney
by Jonathan Briggs @ 30/05/2006 8:06 pm • Permalink •
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More words about birds........
A Syrinx Stilled
On a grace note gently dying, a throstle trills its last With mournful descant sighing the wind around it passed A skylark bearing witness o'er windswept meadow soars Singing soft, in its distress, the wagtail it implores A saraband, in triple time, please dance it if you will Softly sing a song in rhyme while mourners gather still, Pretty wagtail, bob and dip for a lover newly dead So they may, softly, trip and step with measured tread. All in red, and dressed for fun, the poppies gather round, When they see what love has done their petals fall to ground. Upon this crimson carpet, beneath the cold grey sky, Stood the quiet mourners, while one or two did cry. One by one the bearers, with crow in cleric grey Conduct the sombre services upon this joyless day. Under nature's spotlight, caught in the sunlight's glare, Soon the flock of grievers fly off to who knows where.
by Jonathan Briggs @ 30/05/2006 9:05 pm • Permalink •
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Jonathan Briggs: Yes, I was probably thinking about that subconsciously. Not that blackbirds sing in the dead of night very often. The poem is lovely - is it yours?
by bsag @ 01/06/2006 5:06 pm • Permalink •
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I cannot tell a lie......
by Jonathan Briggs @ 01/06/2006 9:07 pm • Permalink •
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