Jonathan Finch
ROBINS’ SINGING
Let the night be late
for the robins sing
and will not sing
when the dark weight
of evening closes everything.
It is almost dusk
and the shadows are
shades now travelling
England’s everywhere and, as it is
usual to mention a star
hanging in heaven,
to have come this far
and not mention one
seems a ridiculous
and unnecessary twist.
When the sun
that had sung from the hawthorn-branches
fell, rung by rung,
and the crocuses moistened
and Putney seemed almost a dell
where the blossoming flowers
welled up out of the earth (though we know
they cannot do that), I thought of you
and thought that perhaps
like me you listened
and hoped for night to come late,
for the robins are singing
but will not sing
when the world grows up
around every ri-baldish thing.
(from “”Love” Poems For Kathy / Green. Laced. Leaves”)
<a href="https://pixabay.com/en/robin-bird-nature-forest-2482666/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Source</a>
