A grey late-morning brooding upon rain.
Robin sits in hedge-thorn, peers out, bobs,
retreats to privet. Small birds do delcare,
fidgeting just visibly. Cheap twit! Feed!
There's plenty of seed. Only a brave bird
will fly to peck it while the giant sits.
I feel the feather of the soft drops fall
upon my hands, and hair that mild wind stirs.
A noon through which to slur and doze in verse,
confirmed as pigeons burr their lulling croon.
But drops plash heavier. Taking the lead,
robin, hoisting his colours, flits to feed.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PuisiIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
