Blackbird
I stumbled into the woods,
past the rotting fly-tipped
shed, took the dark path
of bark fragment, twig,
leaf casement, ground simmering
with bluebottles on scat.
Cleavers and drizzle were dragging
me earthbound
when I saw the eggshell β
blue-green and speckled,
sticky-soft and ragged-edged,
a glossy ovoid
shouldered from its cup
of grass and mud.
The shell was veined inside,
sinewed ancient map
of cells divided. Embryo, hatchling,
tumbling generation of genes
poured onto the path β
this gift from the solar system,
this cluster of atoms
on the brink of another spin
round the rock cycle.
Ordinary as day.
Like that, the woods
imagine the future,
setting green fruits
or the pink edge
on sycamore keys after rain.
Earth releases its gifts
and the stormcock
sings the trees
back to themselves.
Sun high again,
making skylights
of beech.
And the answer
they return is nothing
more or less than
abundant life,
a flicker
of wing to my bones.