He sits on a frozen branch
like a small stain on winter;
smudging the white canvas with
russet and chestnut fire.
The night had been long and cold
and morning light had come late;
spiritless clouds draining the
colour from a sluggish sun
that barely rose; now just a
smear of orange lingering
on a cold horizon.
Arctic air breathes around him
and trees tremble; sieving the
scene with sugary ice and
blurring his chestnut fire.
The dawn chorus fills the air:
a battle of melodies,
chirps and tuneful tweets above
fences and silver-lined roofs…
A door swings opens and the
arena erupts with shrills
and exploding wingbeats.
Feeders swing, breadcrumbs scatter
across a hushed garden but
the chestnut fire remains and
hops to a garden fork.
A small stain on winter,
a smudge on white canvas,
the robin sings his winter tune.
