As there is nothing to do in the garden except morn the flowers buried under the snow I thought I would share a poem instead.
This is a great favourite. It is a poem about nothing; about a delicious absence of unwanted noise and movement and about the great beauty of the sound of blackbirds.
Blackbirds are the first to sing in the morning and the last bird to chuckle down to sleep in the evening. Gardens are plotted and mapped out by the territories of singing blackbirds : ” all the birds of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire” and all the places beyond are the kingdoms of blackbirds.
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