Talking to Thrushes
for Andy, of Maggie’s Centre
Instead of you, I’ll talk to the thrush.
As I can’t book an appointment,
I’ll talk to a sparrow too –
one that calls from the hawthorn.
Or the nervous starling
on the green steel bridge.
When birds are hidden, I’ll talk
to blackthorn with its inch-long spikes,
crab apple (more blossom than leaves)
and ash trees – so many marked
with the white crosses of death.
I’ll talk to them till they’re felled.
Passers-by too. Good morning to cyclists,
the woman I imagine’s a minister,
the man with his old, slow dog.
Last spring, I saw you, cycling to work
in your fluorescent gear.
You noticed me first.
Because I was well and busy staring
at the canopy for the thrush I could hear
but not see, you whizzed past
and only after did I realise who’d waved
and felt blessed
as I do on this cold morning
when the thrush, its speckled chest
standing out against overnight frost,
waits for me to speak.