Ronald Millin White
Blackbird
Last spring’s blackbird, mute now,
Walks November through the rusty garden.
He is dark as a mourner
Among a field of corpses (yellow parchments).
The architecture of the hollyhock
Churches the silence.
The parallels of flower beds
Are terminal wards.
The blackbird is an old verger
Hobbling beside the loving and the dead
Rumours and visions dream new spring
Out of this time and to a different place.
Page(s) 19
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