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Robin

Robin


Round and rotund,

with chest feathers as red as blood,

a small, plump, ball of boldness

alights upon the handle of my garden fork.


Resting momentarily

we each, eye the other.

Me in wonder -

Him or her (I cannot tell)

with wary caution.


But my stillness must convey trust,

as

wary bird,

drops to the ground

and devours the fruits of my labour.

Insects and bugs recently evicted,

some what unceremoniously,

from their earthly hollows

by enthusiastic digging.


My newly acquired red breasted friend

takes full advantage of my toil

and does not dwell on the

exploitative nature of his or her behaviour.

Thus forcing me to ponder - is it such a bad thing,

to be so opportunistic?


That perhaps, I should take simple pleasure

in the fact, even though the weeds will in no doubt return,

I have at the very least, fed a hungry bird.


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5 Comments


Jes Derry
Jes Derry
Apr 16, 2023

A great piece of writing. I really enjoyed reading it. It’s a poem I could read many times.

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Darrell Troon
Darrell Troon
Apr 11, 2023

Cheeky or brave? you have to love the little Robin

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Dawson Stafford
Dawson Stafford
Apr 11, 2023

A lovely poem, taking the humble Robin and turning it to a question of morality.

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Stephen Kingsnorth
Stephen Kingsnorth
Apr 10, 2023

I like it (as, apparently, did the robin)!

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Alison Blevins
Alison Blevins
Apr 10, 2023
Replying to

Thank you

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