• Hugh Loxdale

The Known Bird (Lament for a black songster)

The Blackbird,

In jettest black

Who, six months prior,

Thrilled the Spring skies

With its matchless voice,

Now lies stilled

In the mouth

Of a pretty Cat,

Not out of choice…

Mainly bad luck.

One cannot condemn

The skilled hunter…

It is her prerogative

And desire.

Although I do decry

The bird.

That vision

Who brought such joy

And became complacent

To danger…

Which is a tragedy…

And our loss too…

That beautiful, guileless creature…

Never again

To be heard.

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