Turdidae, by Clive Eastwood

Clive was for many years chairman of the Society. This poem was published in Folio #72 in 2018.


Blackbird chases Thrush
through the flowerbed;
they share a family name
but don't get on.

That's the thing
with taxonomy; it finds
two small bones that match
and you're linked forever.

Take a funeral:
the strangers who coagulate
after the event - aunts,
confused whose sons we are,

nephews who've grown a foot
or grey since Gran was eighty,
cousins claiming to be soul-mates
and with whom

we swear to stay in touch
as we did when - what's he called - 
their second-born was named.
We wrap a wing around each one,

insist they call
the minute there's a chance
and hone our beaks
in case they have the cheek.

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