Robin’s found his lyrics;
flexes all his toes.
Sings! This little heart-throb.
Sings! The season’s rose. Continue reading “The Season’s Rose”
Am I alive? Does the mountain,
from which the loose stone falls,
Does the mountain move?
Massive, impassive, I observe Continue reading “To a Robin on a Bird Table”
Fast-bowled by their orange talons,
pelted at the faces of pedestrians,
they swipe for lift, again for direction,
and level out like Thunderbird Twos. Continue reading “The Flight of Pigeons”
My city rage is calmed by my escape:
The traffic’s groan is fading into larks,
And all the world seems rounder in its shape
As I slow my soul to walk through Cofton Park. Continue reading “Up the Lickeys”
They will always hate you, and fear your span,
seagull of the streets on wings of cloud,
bird of no praise or paradise,
that dares to land and mince before them
on yellow-gartered legs, quite impudent;
showing how Nature never quits
or leaves the scene to die unseen. Continue reading “Seagull Street”