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
Phil Cosker
Writer & photographer
Phil Cosker 
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 http://www.1to25scale.com | design@1to25scale.com http://www.belliandbelli.com | design@belliandbelli.com High House, Rectory Lane, Waddington, Lincoln LN5 9RS UK
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Thank you! I’m ok, thanks Giuseppe. Later would be good. Go well,
P X
Phil brilliant poem Ric M
Thanks Ric, much appreciated! Go well, Phil
Oh Phil, that is so though provoking . Thank you.
Thank you, Arthur! Go well. Phil
But you gave the thrush its song Phil. The music is out there, on the wind. Jx
Thanks Jaci. Go well, Phil
Lovely, Phil – so sensitively handled.
Thank you, Sue. Go well, Phil