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Writer's pictureJon Doble

Death of a Fledgling.


I think this is one of the darker poems that I have written, but for me, it is an evocative reminder of the summer of 2022 and its glorious sunny days. We had been travelling in our campervan, deciding where we would go each day on the spur of the moment, and life felt good, warm, and precious. We arrived at a campsite in Shropshire which was idyllic, and we had half a field to ourselves. It was only when we had sat down to relax that we noticed movement near the hedge at the end of the field, and on investigation we found a young crow unable to fly and sounding distressed. We became aware too that perched on a wire above the hedge was an adult crow making loud noises every time we went too near the young bird. We rang the RSPB for advice, which was very helpful, but basically, we were told to leave well alone and stand back and let nature take its course. To interfere could be disastrous, and the young bird may well be fed by the mother and gain enough strength to fly.


In the midst of the beautiful setting, we watched over three days as the fledgling struggled for survival. There was a growing poignancy for me in witnessing two mothers watch the bird, the mother crow, perched on her wire overseeing the ground, and my wife Jo, who’s compassion and empathy was tangible. For three days these two mothers watched and willed the little bird as it flapped and called, trying to find the strength to rise.


On the third day, the small bird died, and two mothers fell silent.


This poem followed.





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