THE PASSING

By Peter Woodgate 

Whilst tidying some garden pots

on the morning of my birthday

I disturbed a male blackbird

but he didn’t fly away.

 

He hopped a mere two feet from me

and stood upon a boulder,

studying me he didn’t flinch

he couldn’t have been much bolder.

 

I thought, at first, he must be hurt

my hand reached out to test,

he shifted, slightly, showing me

no damage tail to chest

 

he was fully grown, no doubts,

no frail chick was he,

and yet he showed the symptoms

of young’s naivety.

 

I then moved on to other pots

and thought I’d let him be,

an hour later, as I passed,

I could clearly see.

 

He was still standing on the rock

Sunbathing, so I thought,

yet deep inside my mind, it seemed  

things were not as ought.

 

I then forgot him for a while

and supped my birthday drink,

then curiosity returned

and I began to think.

 

I wondered if he was still there,

I looked and then dismay,

he lay prone upon the ground

for he had passed away.

 

Of course, I’ve seen dead birds before

killed by cars and cats,

piles of feathers on the lawn

the work of “dirty rats.”

 

But this was somewhat different

never again would this bird sing

I’d spent some final hours with him

yet failed to hold his wing.

 

It set me wondering 

and made me sigh,

do birds, like elephants,

choose where to die?    

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate