remnantal, 26th February 2017

slow and unsure of its footing the day comes slow into being
an ill-fitting shirt but the only one left that’s clean
last night the night folded in on itself as the last thing I heard as the last chink of grey, sodden mourn-light unnotably whispered away was a song thrush
a thrush of course
Mr Thrush to you, or Song if you’re more familiar
trying to wring as much as it might from the seamless decay….
then I opened my eyes
night had largely passed, shuffling off but still lingered like a bruise
or a ligger at the stage door vainly in hope that I’d be lured from my moorings into some form of meet and greet
no such thing, no meet nor greet nor adoring fans
I’m alone
until over the drone of the remnantal wind that’d been strumming its unchanging pibroch throughout the wee small hours a blackbird, also a thrust, Mr Bird to you, or Black if more familiar
uncertainly picking at notes like scabs as if trying to remember
downplayed and random a few get an airing coaxing a tune, seeking a key…..
and again just as awkward but louder, more volume, confidence grew and his syrinx relaxed until “by Jove, he’s got it!”
and off in full flow he strode out a tune mostly tuneful but for the odd slip of a stave but mostly in ordered procession
his musical crowbar hefting the light from its nightly respite, much like cleaving a reluctant teenager from their bed……
I’m still here
just unsure why…….

© robert greig


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