Another poem. I promise I'm not resorting entirely to verse. It's just that this poem came instantly. I saw the dead greenfinch, disposed of it, then came upstairs and wrote the poem right away. So it's more free-form than the last one, and more real, perhaps.
Death of a Greenfinch
A greenfinch lay on the patio,
dead.
An inch from his beak was a fig
fallen from the fig tree.
What happened? What caused this tiny death?
Did the finch reach for the fig and fail?
He lay on his side
so peaceful.
I stared at his beautiful wing etched in gold,
and the flash of gold edging his tail.
What luxury for me to have the time
to stop and look at what is usually glimpsed
only on the wing.
Why is Nature so precise? What is the use
of those perfect lines of gold?
Centuries of selection made this flawless bird
and now he's gone, snuffed out in an instant
of inattention. Or did the neighbour's cat
get him? No matter, he is gone now.
I wrapped him in silver foil (if only I'd had gold!)
and placed the tiny body in the bin.
When life is gone, the body is but a husk.
What use would ceremony be to a wild bird?
I, on the other hand, have made elaborate
arrangements - a handmade felt cocoon,
adorned with oak leaves, beech leaves, tendrils,
and a plot on a steep hill cropped by sheep,
high above the upper Severn
in this country which I love but is not mine.
Friends to carry the cocoon, my favourite music
and poetry to suit the occasion.
The greenfinch had none of these, just
my sad reflection on his beauty, a scooping up in silver,
then he was gone. So it will be for me.
We come from nothing and to naught we go,
like the bird in the tale told by Bede, who flies
through the banqueting hall. From the dark he comes,
a brief sojourn in the lighted hall
then out into the dark for ever more.
