In the backyard battleground
The mother wants rid of her daughter
But the daughter wants more worms


Time to fly the nest little blackbird
The mother tries to persuade her daughter
But the daughter has a broken wing


They argue beak to beak upon the ground
The mother determined to force the issue
But the disabled daughter won't let go


A stand-off dance of sorts now ensues
The mother twelve inches from her daughter
But the daughter mirrors her every move


Flicking autumn leaves as blackbirds do
The mother finds a tasty morsel or two
But the daughter dashes in for the steal


Another fight and flying feathers
The mother's had enough of this pantomime
But her daughter's bond is that much stronger


Than Mother Nature would care to admit
With winter waiting beyond the hedgerow
Where the weak will succumb to cold defeat



words ©Colin Hill 2017


◄ Mary Bradley

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Colin Hill

Sat 4th Nov 2017 12:48

hello Cynthia and thank you very much for your comment. Male and female juvenile blackbirds, as far as I know, are a similar brown colour until their first winter moult at which time the males take on a darker plumage. I am happy to stand corrected if this is not the case.

So, to answer your question, it may well have been a son rather than a daughter. I think I made an assumption in line with the adult colouring. I'm not sure I'm entirely happy with this poem but at the risk of over thinking it I forced myself to stop and left it relatively self-contained within the world of the birds. I had thought about drawing parallels with us humans but somehow it felt best to leave us out of the equation and act as a mere observer instead. However, in answering your question I find I am asking myself other questions like, would it have made a difference if I had written 'son' instead of 'daughter'?

Btw, the pair are still hanging around and bobbing about the yard and the mother is still trying to get rid of the daughter - or son.

All the best, Colin.

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Fri 3rd Nov 2017 21:36

Much enjoyed. IMO, very well written. The three-line stanzas work really well. While I admire the premise greatly, how do you know it wasn't a son?

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