Flutter of sudden wings

Crashing shadows across

The window-pane.

And now a piping

Pitched out of that bill

Of bright rolled gold

Startles a late time to sing

Like that, with the moon

In his eye, the open secret

Of his music, vibrating empty

Streets in the late dusk

Of an October evening,

Shaking television aerials,

No bird more flute-like,

The transfiguration of his song

Bowing like cellos, ringing

With only the gesture

Of a raised head his word hoard,

Singing down the stars.

And as the dust

Was blowing

Off the ancient manuscript,

He reverberated in a voice,

As it were, of many rushing waters,

Through the mouthpiece

Of his prophet who had little feet

Of clay, and the two-edged sword

He flourished was glinting

In the sunlight of a new and better

Morning, some time, somewhere far off

Chris Sparks, Petersfield.

Daily Echo poet-in-residence Polly Clark writes: This beautiful poem celebrates the blackbird, and brings to life the richness of its calls.

You can e-mail Polly on polly.clark@soton-echo.co.uk