Sunday, 6 December 2020

IN THE LAST MONTH OF THE YEAR

Robin 

Why is it that, in the last month of the year
when I walk to the post box by the stone house
where roses still bloom over the window

I remember a boy one winter's day
holding out his fingers like wing tips
for a robin, which - instad of keeking
behind a haw curtain - came to his hand
for crumbs and, when it flew back to the thorns,
its feathers dusted his skin as softly
as the first snowflakes?

© Mary Robinson 2010
from The Art of Gardening (Flambard Press 2010)

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