The bee narrates his own symphony,
as I wonder —
do blackbirds run and hop,
more of a hop and a run.
It makes sense,
their arms tucked by their sides,
a pleasure to watch the father
fetch and fend,
and the babies grow,
their nest sharing our home:
their home and their rest.
I like to think I’ve got to know
their characters —
especially Paul,
aptly dubbed
for reasons obvious
to those who know me.
He’s protective to a fault.
We had a philosophical entanglement recently
as I dared to encroach
on the garden in general.
He spent the whole time shouting at me,
getting nearer and nearer
so I could be in no doubt —
an argument one way.
I soothed,
and apologised
for my human fixation on brambles —
I sometimes dream of brambles —
I have freed several trees
from their tyrannical grip,
though I’m sure it violates
some natural prime directive.
I hope I’m helping
in some way.
And as is the way,
sat here intentionally
setting out to write a song,
my mind travels
to this tale of Linda and Paul,
our resident blackbirds —
their likes
and burgeoning family
looming large.
I think someone wrote a song
about a blackbird once.
The World Outside the Window 