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.