The gravestones lean in lichened sleep,
Blanched leaves of oak in drifts are strewn,
The cold-stunned birds their secrets keep.
Except
the robin, oxide-chested,
Arrant on a wet beech branch,Carolling the sun, now wested,
Filling his lungs from beak to haunch.
Shortly,
the evening frost will crisp,
And darkness like a gulf will fall,His song will palter to a lisp,
And snow in flurries start to maul.
Long
hours he’ll roost, his claws on ice,
Hid in some yew or holly bush,His feathers fluffed in cold’s chill vice,
One eye will track the night’s deep hush.
Come
day he’ll hurl his song again,
Mate-enticing, ferrous-bright,Shrugging off wind and sleeting rain,
Aflame upon his beech-tree height.
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©
December 2014