A robin flying through the wood
alit on branch and there it stood
to glimpse with gratitude the view
and sing a hymn to day anew.
It warbled praise of tarn and fell
with fluted voice that cast a spell
upon the wood still moist with dew,
and then, refreshed, away it flew.
But long since time its notes went still
and silence filled the air, not trill,
I've stayed beneath the spell it cast
with song of splendor unsurpassed.
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Author Notes
Happy Birthday, Margaret, nature's poet and my favorite songster.
Margaret often writes of the English countryside, of the fells, or hills, and the tarns, or small mountain lakes. And while she writes of many birds, her beloved robins are closest to her heart, I believe. Three quatrains cannot begin to express the beauty I have found in her poetry or thank her for the warmth of her friendship, but this humble offering will have to do.
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