Sad About The Starling
I buried a bird in the garden,
dug its grave with a spade.
Under the bush, I found a snail shell,
to mark where it was laid.
Silence told me how the starling died,
a squabble on the roof.
Suspect its murderer was a magpie,
though I do not have the proof.
Sad about the starling,
to miss the rest of spring,
to not join the summer chorus,
when birds of many kinds will sing.
What kind of skill is that, to act, I thought,
as I put the spade back in the shed.
To be a person you are not on stage or screen,
to be an actor, what does it mean?
A lump of jelly, activated by words on a page,
moulded by a director’s dictation,
to perform as a person not real, but a fiction.
Is that who they are, what an actor is?
Of death all has been said.
Sat in my kitchen,
I thought of the soil and the starling dead.