I’d much rather push up daffodils than daisies, should summer be renamed sprung? Last winter, so cold I worried all the birds would freeze, fed them toast, dreamt of knitting them jackets.
A robin died in my hands on Christmas eve one year, Found on chewing gum pavements barely breathing, his soft little breast rising and falling heavily like snow, his neck a little droopy, so soft he was almost boneless, frighteningly fragile, lovely. Osiris’ scales about to be tipped, I tripped and skidded the way home, broken bird in one hand, dog lead straining the other. As the door swung open, a **** for breath, his twist of head and then…
This bird is dead dirt.
His orange crumbled.
Buried in a dog food box, The guilt of knowledge lies under the duvet, the winter grows stagnant.