Little dinosaur, you sleep among
the old leaves of the hornbeam hedge,
while the stars turn over England
and the humans start to meditate.
Sitting there, aware of breathing,
I sense a slow blue inhale of dawn,
and hear you suddenly break
the silence ­­­– as if you untucked
your squat brown head, shook
the darkness from your feathers
and let the world know you are alive.
Robin mutterings – descant trills
that shiver through those cold wings –
they warm the stiff hedge, the frosty
morning – just another morning in
a hundred million years of song.

Posted: Mon 24 Jul, 2023