when we killed that blackbird- <br />how it burst from the hedgerow <br />like gun fire, a tiny Apache, <br />its head cracking the glass <br />and the way its body fluttered in the wind <br />and in the shock of our silence. <br />It was quite funny <br />when you swept it away <br />with a flick of the windscreen wiper. <br /> <br />And so it’s awful <br />how pauses have become <br />the thick grouting of our conversation, <br />and these pale weeds of subject matter <br />stick their scrawny necks out again; <br />as we acknowledge them dimly, <br />like relatives we’re ashamed of. <br />Even this story of the bird <br />we’ll illustrate to each other over a slow drink, <br />and try to rekindle the impact of death, <br />the way everything stopped. <br /> <br />Now how its bones have become grass, <br />daisies and dandelion pioneers, <br />seeds caught on a cashmere sweater, <br />and the way we have witnessed our disintegration, <br />makes me wonder- <br />can things disappear forever, <br />or like the tide do they just slip away, briefly <br />before coming back <br />ever so slightly changed, <br />a different temperature, salinity, colour?<br /><br />Alexander James Allen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blackbird-8/
