Unreliable Narration

I think that in the winter maybe
robins have spare time
It stands to reason
the fucking and fighting
season is largely over
​and cold weather dampens
everyone’s belligerence

Overnight hard frost has turned
the garden flagstones to crusted white
a robin has left its cuneiform marks
in the ice
​a meandering
narrative
​​
The sun casts its light
on the robin’s story written so
painstakingly in its spare time
for me to read

and every trace melts away
before I can decipher what
it was the robin wanted me to
know, what it had wanted
so urgently to say

Beth Brooke lives in Dorset. She has had three poetry pamphlets published, was twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and was also nominated this year for the PEN Heaney Prize. The most exciting thing that’s happened to her lately is becoming a grandmother.