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January long a robin clung
To the cloud-high wands of a sycamore;
From morning dusk to evening gloam
It swayed in the sky and sang and hung.
Those
wands, red-skinned in the low-sun sky,
And
shaken like reeds by a slapping wind,Clutched leaflessly at the floss-bunched clouds
Like suds on water circling by.
Absent
to feed but soon returned,
That
red-bibbed robin challenged all;Tits and starlings were turfed off twigs,
Blackbirds jeered at until they adjourned.
A
song so sweet, an ire so hot,
His
fiery breast like glowing coals,Come March, with heath and glade for food,
He’d want a mate, and young begot.
But by month’s end he disappeared,
The
wands waved emptily through the day,The gossipy starlings in busy groups
Bounced through the tree quite undeterred.
That
robin, was he pinned as prey
By
a rushing cat? Did he twist a wingIn a botched escape? Was he sick? Did he starve?
The thrashing sycamore will not say.
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©
February 2014