Earlier this week I wrote about Sam Weller philosophies from Pickwick Papers and that research spawned today's poem.
Robin Angel
Where do robins
gan to dee,
perhaps
they’ve got immortality,
yer nivver
see’m on the ground,
even with all
the cats around,
still they
come again and again,
with messages
for women and men.
Often seen
near the garden spade,
waitin’ te
chat - working waylaid,
with
waistcoat of crimson,
a message
from heaven,
from the dear
departed,
via this bird so big-hearted.
He’ll stand
their quite brazen,
demanding
your attention,
quite
unafraid for such a little chap,
telling his
tale with hardly a gap,
until he’s
passed on the whole story,
then off he
flits in his crimson glory.
© David L Atkinson January 2024
God Bless
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