Poetry

The Robin Man
(Philip Edwards 1907 – 2007)

Though he was never anything but ancient

To my young eyes,

He had been, once, joint youngest.

I thought that his old bones had always creaked

As, every day, across the lawn he hobbled

To catch the sun.

Slowly, his large and wrinkled hand unfolded

Revealing crumbs of lurid orange cheese

And smiling, silently, he’d hold it out.

And birds would come.

I thought that he was magic;

A cunning man, with powers

To bend the whole of nature to his will.

His eyes, though, danced and sparkled like a child’s

To see his robins.

I longed to know the secret;

Vainly chased after rabbits, grabbed at frogs

Which, panicking, slipped wetly from my hands

As he, old wizard, charmed the birds and foxes

By being still.

His wisdom was: he spread his hands wide open

And when the life he held wanted to leave him,

He let it fly.

Sarah Thomasin