Looked out of the windowsill
whistled itself a tune,
peeped in a toilsome way,
a robin with its head brun
When the sun is just up,
without a design I could trace,
a few quick feet here,
along its route through cascade.
Every noon so aimless and strange,
until the sundown crept,
twerps some secret in skies,
was off much before I slept.
YOU ARE READING
The Inner Me || Wattys 2017
PoetryA collection of poems written by a lonely girl who lived years back. Highest ranking #58 in poetry
