Oblivious of cats tuning up in the pits,
two blackbirds perform on the pergola,
a courtship, roof-top ritual. We,
in the front row of the stalls,
watch from our bedroom window,
the greening honeysuckle now
the ‘wings’ for strutting,
fluttering, teasing exits.
An interlude of high wire antics
is executed on intruding telephone lines,
then back to the sloping boards.
Hide, scutter, peek a boo,
and off stage left.
A dress rehearsal for
the nesting chase.
Spring fever.
As blackbirds don’t reveal wrinkles,
greying feathers, arthritic knees,
how do potential mates detect
diminishing fecundity?
Can the ageing ones learn
new tricks, pull birds?
And where do old
blackbirds
go to die?