redwing on Rymers Lane

And more snow comes,
smothering land and city,
upon snowdrops and rooftops,
berries and frozen earth,
bringing a lone redwing
no bigger than my woollen hands
to be grounded
beneath a fruitless hedge
by a lifeless white allotment
on Rymers Lane, East Oxford.

He stands there so small,
his wings clasped tight to the sides
of his pale, speckled breast,
with infinite wild fear in his eyes.

I tell myself I must leave him,
so as not to distress him,
just walk past with a quick glance back
as I trudge, coat fastened tight,
through the snow on my way
to the supermarket,
on my way

And I think of nothing but him
and yet I do nothing for him
than to worry and feebly write
this cold poem this deadly night.

A sequel/companion to redwings on a grey December day

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