Refuge

Just a scrap of black fluff,

I’d never have noticed

were it not for the worry

of the mother bird 

her grub-stuffed beak

darting in and out of the ivy,

a regular, frail cheep

rewarded all afternoon

before the fast that darkness brings.

With the chick in the open

and the threat of next door’s

bastard cat,

I gave it a hasty refuge 

a broken garden trug

stuffed with strips of newspaper,

a slim chance at least.

Tough little bugger

still hunkered down come morning,

another day of delivered treats,

mother urging survival

now from dense underplanting,

that persistent cheep marking out the day.

There are several young blackbirds in the trees

a hidden nursery,

my little ball of black fluff

might be one.

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2019