The Thrush

I approach and stare
Thinking the thrush is dead
It has hit a windowpane
As I go to pick it up
To dispose of it
A cruel word dispose
Its tiny heart still throbs
Minute breaths
Quivering in its chest
Flies tentatively gather
Happy for a new bequest
The thrush so beautiful
Such fragility wasted
Its song forever ceased
I cannot touch
Its dappled plumpness
Full of promise
Now full of sadness
Unable to disturb its last breath
I’m writing this
Waiting for its death

Returning later
I find it dead
Wearing disposable gloves
I scatter the flies
Taking the thrush
As gently as I can
I lift it to a resting place
An Asda plastic bag
Finally the black wheelie bin
Not finally at all
That’ll be the rubbish dump
Amidst tons of dross
It deserves better
A chorus of thrushes singing
A mezzosoprano soaring
A tenor adding tenderness
I’m not a child
I know better
Than to be afraid of death
It’s only how I die that matters
I wish the thrush’s life
Had been in an instant gone
Better that
Than dwindling breath
Lacking a song
For its final tune
As the music stops

10 thoughts on “The Thrush

  1. Beautiful Phil. Xx You ok? Will call for a catch up after Gxxx

    Giuseppe & Emma Belli Production Design Theatre & Opera Scenography

    (+44) 7931 617634 | (+44) 7930 924165 | | High House, Rectory Lane, Waddington, Lincoln LN5 9RS UK

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