A grey, blackish, brackish day in London. A day where the clouds begin and the rain ends and there is no sun. A day where death stalks us on the pavement, and where a black pallor hangs like a shroud over London.
There it was, or rather, there you were, a dead bird on the pavement. Shuffled to one side, out of the foot fall of walkers, mothers and children you were tucked against a wall, legs clenched up to your chest, beak finally silent and wings held close.
Did you give up? Was the cold, the grey sky, the lack of food, the predatory cats that roam the streets too much for you? Was the sheer adversity of living the ultimate enemy?
I hope that you, as you lie in complete stillness, untroubled by the flow and eddy of human life around you, dream of warmer blue skies, where you fly free in the whispers of wind. I hope that you are surrounded by a nest of birds, where you and your lover coo to each other in the shimmering leaves of the trees, where warm bark rises to meet you as you swoop and spiral the breeze.
Just to let you know that you are missed, that your death, whilst meaningless, has not been unremarked or unnoticed. You have, even with your death been loved, been mourned and been seen. You are forever marked on this page as something which whilst apparently a small event, is a symbol of the final passing which comes to us all.
Sleep well, sweet blackbird.