Birds and Introspection


3 A.M. cold, dark and lonely
A cup of tea beside the bed.
I could sleep, I know, if only
Aching limbs were calm and still
And grim thoughts were not in my head.

Feel I can no longer cope
With Peter, sick in mind,
I'm alone and without hope
Strength I cannot find
To deal with him,
He drains me dry
"What shall I do" his constant cry.

Somehow I must see it through
But I pay the price
Tension, dread, I'm so alone.
Being Stoic, oh, not nice.


Wingate Robin

There's a Wingate Robin at Lindum
A luckier Robin than mine.
He's got a little shelter 
With food on Its floor all the time
A nice little pond to bathe in
With a beach beach, really fine.

Visitors too has their Robin, 
Blue tits and Grey tits it seems 
And look! there's his friend come to see him 
This is his garden of dreams.

I hope he knows that he's lucky 
My Robin gets bread, 
And water to drink from a dish 
But maybe he'd feel an intruder 
With all "mod cons" such as this.




Is this what growing old can be, 
All sorts of pains, no energy. 
Something different every day, 
Pills to take the pains away. 
Is this what growing old can be, 
Or is there something wrong with me?

My Turn

Is it my turn now?
Asks my tired old heart
Will I be the next one to depart?
I certainly fee that it won't be long.
But 73 years have come and gone
And I don't really mind
If my time has come
To leave this old world
Which tires me so
Don't really mind if it's time to go.

Good-byes will be hard
But I've done my stint.
They'll all settle down
And I hope take the hint,
And not be too sad,
That my rest must be had.

Not my turn yet
Says my tired old mind,
Any thought of rest
I can leave far behind.
Toil on I must
Feeling queasy and fat
Pain in my knee
And no bra for my bust.
But I don't have to leave my family dear,
For that I give thanks,
As I'm now in the clear.


Our House Bird Song

At 5 o'clock each morning
Just before it's getting light
I hear the sweetest song of all
A Black Bird, what a lovely sound,
Tentative not clamorous, yet,
Too early in the year for that,
So pure it fills my heart with joy.
I listen, in my lovely bed
And know the pleasure of such purity.

Cockney Sparrows

I knew the phase so very well
A "little cockney Sparrow" would tell
Of quick witted cheeky personel
I never knew from whence it came.
Untill one winter afternoon, I stood
With Annie looking skywards, too,
And swarms and swarms of sparrows flew
Chirping cheerfully home to roost
Their song quite battering to our ears
O'er head was black with tiny wIngs
Cockney Sparrows cheeky things

My Robin 12-12-94

On the high branch of the Sycamore tree
The "Robinson Robin" sings happily.
With cold blue sky above his head
He looks down at me eyes bright, breast red.
Then swiftly down to the line he flies
Where I'm hanging out the washing,
MY fingers ice
And off he goes to the bush beyond
Of my Robinson Robins I've grown quite fond


Christmas came amd we went away
On our return, there, heaped on the mat
Was a pile of feathers the culprit OUR Cat.
I couldn't find a sign of Red
So hoped the Robinson Robin was safe in his bed


I saw my Robin this morning
He flew down to show me he's here
I've been a bit worried a about him
So I wished him a "happy New Year"