Blackbird

All morning the tree has been crying. Its tears are from nightfall.
Here is the bitter sound of unmusical squawking

Above the crown. There are no fruits or flowers to be plucked –
Just leaves and twigs. He is no dove.

The tumultuous applause of leaves says
There is no peace. The branches are constantly set in motion,

Bending down, as if in prayer, to weep. Back and forth
It sways, its sins falling impetuously

Onto the grass like hail. The field is glistening enough
In the morning sunlight – the wild flowers add splendour

Save the touch-me-nots, who shrivel under
The black disturbance, like a homeless man below dark clouds.

They are practical. Excitement has caused the intruder to
Flutter around carelessly

In the freshness of the morning. It is too early
For an exorcism. Brutality tells him to wrestle on.

He does not let it go.