Robin

There is a little robin who visits our back yard.

He flits about, lands on twigs and fills me up with joy.

His jolly red front, his lively little leaps.

I love it when he comes.

I like to think he's a messenger of relatives long passed;

People tell me this: like pennies found

Unexpectedly on the ground,

They are a signal from afar that all is well

And we are being watched with affection,

By a familial sentinel.

I don't believe this but I like it nonetheless.

It leaves me with a sense of wonder and comfort.

I haven't seen him up close; he's wary where he perches,

But today he landed on a bike, a plant holder

Modelled just so.

His little claws gripping the metal on this wet summer day;

The wind ruffling his feathers, puffing him out.

I was writing when I spotted him.

He immediately got my attention as he stately sat,

Harried by the wind but happy to let it do its thing.

He was never still; he moved in increments,

His head tweaking, his wings expanding just a little,

His feet shifting for stability from the buffets.

Having the time to look at him, he is a veteran.

The raggedness of his feathers is not windsweep caused:

It is age. He has a washed-out quality, a gravitas

Shown in his poise.

Like an old shoe, he has scuffs in his plumage.

And his bold black eyes,

Like glossy pinheads are singular:

He turns his head towards where I sit

And I see where he does not.

His left eye does not show - is it there?

Is he winking at me? No, too long closed.

Is it opaque like a fantasy seer?

I cannot tell from here.

I got closer to him yesterday but he was shaded in the trees,

A robin silhouette known only by his shape and size.

I did not see his eyes.

He never moved away. He was not fazed or dazed;

Just watching, safe in his foliage cover, claws on twig secure.

I thought he was young, inexperienced, unaware

Of the danger I present. I wouldn't hurt him

But I could. But he knew I was no threat.

Today, I wonder what he has encountered.

What took his missing eye? Was he attacked?

Is the unevenness in his feathers

The markings of teeth? Escape from the literal jaws of death?

Was it Monty the cat? Or the bold ginger tiger

Who struts past man-made constructs with ease

With his predatory swagger?

Two magpies arrived while the robin was sat.

His posture changed; alerted, he coiled

Ready to launch, if needed.

Thugs were present and he was aware.

Was it them that took his eye?

They fought while he was here.

Had he been caught in some fraught exchange?

He did not stay but flew away.

Experience wins through.

I hope he will be back, my one-eyed robin.

I don't believe in robin spirits but if it's true,

Something about his eye

Brought something to my mind,

Moisture to my eye.

A comparison to a relative who had to wear a patch;

Over their left eye; old and much loved,

Having seen better days, ruffled by life's winds.

I remembering him winking at me,

A young granddaughter, faced with illness

Ravaging someone she loved.

This memory resurfaced, not wholly pleasant

But still a remembrance of love.

A flaw brought about by battling a war,

The robin and him are similar,

Although he has long gone from here,

Many years ago, having lost the fight

With the jaws of death. Not a cat

But still a 'C' word and just as predatory.

I don't believe in robin messengers,

I don't.

But I truly hope he returns

And like a sentinel, I will be watching.