The Robin
A Robin rests upon the bough
That longed to catch the snow.
Which floated on the winter breath
To kiss the land below.
It’s eboned eyes they coaxed the sky,
To clothe that crystal day.
With tiny jumps and feathers plumped
No thoughts to fly away.
It’s wandered gaze was taken
As the door it opened wide.
To unleash a golden splendour,
Of the love contained inside.
A Soldier stood in uniform
His wife with babe in arm.
A teared cheek and long embrace,
A storm beneath the calm.
His boots they left a memory,
So fleeting on the ground
Before he’d latched the garden gate,
The first could not be found.
The Soldier slowly closed the gate,
And stole a final glance.
A picture framed to hold so dear,
Upon the fields of France.
Before he left to join the throng
He saw the crimsoned bird.
The gentlest of moments
Then he left without a word.
A Robin perched upon the wire
Of sharp and twisted fear.
It viewed a scene so different,
From all that it held dear.
As the smoke and mist it lifted,
Across that battlefield.
It saw the Soldier fighting,
Without a thought to yield.
With all about in chaos,
With all around him beat.
The soldier fought without a thought,
Of surrender or defeat.
At the height of battle,
When he could give no more
He saw a flash of crimson,
Perched at Heaven’s door.
The soldier fell to darkness
With thoughts of all at home.
He lay there in that devil’s trench,
Dying all alone.
A Robin stood upon the sill,
Bathed in glorious sun.
And viewed the scene, so serene,
Of men whose fight was done.
Hospital beds lined in rows,
With angels in attendance.
At edge of knife, the fight for life
Yet spirits in ascendance.
It watched the soldier’s fight endure
A different dark campaign.
It saw him spurn the enemy
With all the same disdain.
Winter came to claim its debt,
But left without its prize.
The embers sparked, a fire was lit,
Inside the Soldier’s eyes.
At the height of battle,
With still unbroken will.
The soldier saw a crimson gift
Upon that window sill.
A Robin sat upon the bough
In its familiar place.
Where all who paid the sacrifice,
Death had left no trace.
It saw a lonely figure,
Walking through the snow.
This time the footprints on the ground,
Remained, refused to go.
The Soldier reached the garden gate,
A once forgotten place.
He faltered there, too much to bare,
With tears upon his face.
The search for crimson, now became
His most important quest.
He found it there, for all to share,
Upon that Robin’s breast.
Another gentle moment,
A Soldier’s life reborn.
As he knocked upon his own front door,
On that joyous Christmas morn.
By Lyndon Jeremiah
