Ode to the Blackbird

A truer sound there’s none
Than the blackbird’s call
Cutting through the still air
Of dawn. 
So pleased to see our migrant bird
Appear 
We’ve missed the familiar 
Black gloved thrush 
A few miles ago
As south in search of food they fly. 
Who might our visitor be?
He does not say,
Save that I hope
He’s a Swede or even Finn
Drawn from the cold north winds
To our South Western stream. 
Reassurance to know
Despite the mildness of our climate change 
The continuity is present
In this quintessential bird.