The Old Bird

1934 - 2025

Ay, the old bird
She’s a tough one she is
And no common crow sir
No common crow at all 

Once upon a feather-soft springtime 
She was the blue-eyed nestling 
Fussing and keening for her food  

Then a hazel-eyed summer beauty
Full of mischief
Strutting about 
in her shimmering black mantle 
Clicking and cooing at her ardent 
admirers 

Come autumn 
She was the brown-eyed grande dame
Bristling and unruly and proud 
Oh so proud 
Shaking her raven shawled shoulders
Calling at the wind
And pecking at any kernel of scorn 

Now with the vanished years
Piled up like so much ash
The Empress
Tough as an old root
Sets snug 
In her winter roost 

Cloaked in tattered weeds 
With ink stained eyes 
She clicks and croaks
Her awful distress 

Broken by
Black dreams of spring
She keens again for her lost mother 

No sir
The old bird
She was no common crow
No common crow at all