Poetry

Monday, 9 June 2025

A Thrush

 

A thrush came to my window sill

About quarter past the hour

The ink was white upon his spikey head

As the winter air turned bitter sour

 

He stayed there for a little while

Pecking crumbs and dusting his bristles

A pigeon brooded in the pine

And my friend flew off

To make another sill

At a different time

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