Up and away
August 15, 2010
A little robin perched
on a brown, tattered hat
watches the blur
of clouds breeze over
the dishevelled,
stitched straws of
yesterday and today.
Hovering on the moments
that migrate back
to early nest instincts,
in readiness for the uplift,
the flit to the off and up.
When this translates
into flight is something
little known to old hands
more adept at pointing crows
in opposite directions.
Anywhere, but on the ground,
please, for a patched-up man
who wishes he were a kite
with the colour of a bird,
and robin red would be nice,
although black as a crow
would suffice, perhaps
just the once or twice.
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