I love nature, but it can also be a real shit.
Last night, my patient, Little Bob, was hopping around and eating, seemingly full of life. Now he lies buried in the ground. It’s hard to put into words how I feel at the moment.
I had only intended to have Bob for one night, as I was due to visit a wildlife hospital the following day and would take him with me. Plans changed, and my visit to the hospital was pushed back a week. I thought, as he seemed to be happy enough, that I might be able to look after him for another day or two until he was ready to leave.
We tried to release him, but he wasn’t ready to fly. I couldn’t leave him on the floor to be eaten, so took him home and nursed him. He became very tame, very quickly. He would perch on my finger and refuse to hop off, until I moved him towards his nest, then he would dutifully hop into bed and snooze.
How can a goldfinch chick with a brain the size of seed have so much character and charm? The phrase, a charm of goldfinches, really is no wonder at all.
I buried Little Bob under an Oak tree in a place I visit regularly. I placed a large granite stone, picked up from Nanjizal bay in Cornwall, on top of his grave. When I got home I wrote a very short poem.
Beneath oak and granite stone,
Feathers of gold fly home.