Upon a branch, within a tree outside
my window sits a Robin laying low,
his grieving eyes: a joy to all who cried
when winter showed its face, but now they know
the leaves begin to grow, some birds chiffchaff
while others warble, blasting dawn with song.
The flower heads induce, with love, a laugh
as red as wine, as blue as skies that throng
above the English lakes outside my door,
where lovers roll upon the banks so green
and children laugh just like they did before
the bitter cold had settled down unseen.
The Robin soars into the blue filled dome,
this vernal joy has sent him flying home.