13 April 2009

To A Robin

You are dead now, poor thing.
The snag of hunger was too much for you,
Tight little ball of life
All outstretched.

Your brightness withdraws,
An abandonment to decay.

No gentle oblivion of the earth awaits,
Just the sound of bones
Atop a concrete grave
And an epitaph of distaste
From the passers by.

Poem by Helen Woodroof, Illustration by myself

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