, , , , ,


The young boy

Wiped one

Crimson glove

Over the frosted panes

Pondering the scene



The muted twilight

Held a solitary air

Of stony impermanence.

He held his breath

At the sight

Of one timid,

Tiresome robin,

Perched on his

Mother’s marble

Bird fountain.


It quivered amidst

The wintry breeze.

The sweet, weak chirps

Of the robin

Attracting the attentions

Of a ravenous chestnut



Inside, the fireplace

Beside the boy,

Crackled and cajoled

At the robins

Gross misfortune.

And the boy could do nothing

But watch.


And so he did not.

He hid his eyes beneath

Still damp gloves,

Inhaling their clammy

Moisture amidst his

Own tears.

He did not want to see

Such a sight today.



Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

I’ve written a lot more poetry, which you can check out at my poetry tag