For those just walking on by,

pulling their coats closer to their skin,

It was surely nothing more than

a piece of litter thrown carelessly

out of a window of a passing car,

the jetsam of the age, too busy

for a bin, for the black plastic bag

collection on Friday morning at seven A.M.

Yet, no rubbish, just all dead

inside the remains of this wind battered nest,

no sign of mother, sticks clumped by rain

and sod and tossed from the tree with force.

Above, on the lead missing church roof,

singing songs of sad lament in the howling gale,

a blackbird shoulders the pain

and watches the passers by keenly,

hoping one will take pity on the dead inside.

Ian D. Hall 2018