Blackbird of my soul


and when she staid
above my head
her wings outstretched
as I lay in bed
to all those horses
wild in dreams
to all those spawning
fish in streams
her gaze attentive
below should cast
the future seen
as in the past
then in the wake
of feathers fluttering
careful words to take
for uttering
Angels’ hair
immortal eyes
in loving prophesy
not yesterday
before her birth
nor on the morrow
of uncertain worth
pushed with the wind
pushed through the door
whispering tenderly

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is also the author of Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..