The Blackbird

A blackbird watches from his perch

Up in the hawthorn tree,

And as  I dig and turn the earth

He waits expectantly.

The sunlight filters through the leaves

And gleams upon his wing,

Yet he remains oblivious

Of the sights and sounds of Spring.

He only sits in silence

As with my spade I toil,

In ardent contemplation

Of a feast upon new soil.