The truth is, it was only part white;
the albino blackbird that came to your garden
two winters ago – but into my head
comes this ghost of a bird, shadowless,
a white absence, blind negative
in the snow. No reflection glides
over the lake where he flies, light and boneless,
no sound from his throat.
And though you say they never survive; the rare
or different, destroyed by their own kind
I see how he speeds out of the distance,
gathers weight, and darkens, over the miles
till he meets his own blackness, grows
into lustre; blackbryd, ouzel, merle
who quickens the heart as he sings
each night from our gate-post;
his mouth’s open crocus, his eye ringed with gold.