ON HEARING A BLACKBIRD BY SEARLE HOUSE, EXETER HOSPICE

By Seth Finnegan

This evening in December, I heard the rich trill

Of a soft brown bird beside Searle House..

Clear and strong as a waterfall, it gushed into

The night air, as dusk crept low and settled all

About.

The song held me like a spell, and I looked to see

In a framework of branch and bough, a blackbird

singing for me now.

I knew that in the Hospice they couldn’t hear the

Bright sonnet ringing out. That world is muffled

Into a dull, sterile silence that I had seen for weeks.

But on this tree, leafless, prehensile, the words of

The bird floated far and near. That institutional

Quietness, could not match the hush married to this

Glorious golden lay, this pure praise of promise.

It rang out as a benediction, a fruitfulness amidst

The winter frost, a blessing from the Holy Ghost.

She was calling for her mate.

I lit my pipe and the embers sparked about my

Fingers. What love in life we sometimes find at odd

Moments, when by wild chance nature speaks and

Spills her sound, from it’s guts to the ground, to the

Stars from a glance