Posted on 12th Oct 2021
Natural healing Gaudily-coloured, thoughtless litter, a twisted, traffic-soiled tree. The neglected house with it's burglar-challenging boarding. A slovenly parade of prematurely closed shops. The pushchaired child in a tissue thin frock and summer wellingtons, gawping at a passing hearse, its occupants a study in collective grief. Suddenly, a Blackbird, dark as jet, with a beak the colour of school custard, hops down onto a knuckled branch, opens his throat and sings the first few notes of his honeysuckle song, lifting my soul and I know I will make it through another day.