Week 52 -entries and results

Photograph by David Waters
Week 52 - David Waters


A diverse set of poems this week, some nostalgic, some descriptive, others taking a flight into the imagination (forgive the pun).  However as always only one winner and that is Tomas Bird for The Ruddock (poem 5). Congratulations to Tomas and thanks to everyone who took part by writing and submitting poems and also by voting.

Poem 1

Hyde Park Love

A Christmas kiss, years since passed;

Lit a spark and our fire raged.


A cool and crisp December day,

I hear a voice call out my name.


We’d meet in star-lit shadows,

You were older, I was young.


Once we met, down by the park,

Hidden in plain view during day.


A curious Robin flew down by us

The only one to watch us play


We’d meet in star-lit shadows,

You were older, I was young.


Laid down staring at Heaven;

It’s true, it’s only just sky.

You left me to chase Sun rays;

I left you to catch Moon beams.


We’d meet in star-lit shadows,

You were older, I was young.


Kevin Eagles


Poem 2

Quick Robin                                                




Against the breeze

(The February freeze)


With song of beak,

Spike of claw,

Spark of eye,

Tuft and tilt of tail,

Fluff and fern and frond of feather;

Ready to spring from the wall and feel

The gift of air,

The lift and drift

Of wing and wind:

Quick robin




Lizzie Ballagher


Poem 3



If I were a different Robin born

I would rescue damsels

Liberate from the rich

Return to the poor


Or dawn a guise

Of a sweet old gran

To bring happiness and joy

To boy, to girl and to everyone


I might gift the world

Songs, with my dulcet tones

Rejoicing at Staying Alive

Sending chills down their bones



I stand upon this rock face

Contemplating time, tide…

Wow, this world moves at an endless pace


For one revolution

Around our brightest star

Is my presence required here

Upon this land and up in the air


So whether my image stands prominently

As the symbol of sporting glory

Or upon festive cards, stamps

Or all manner of stationery


I will use my gifted time

I will soar so very very high

I will partake in the world’s offerings

I will stand proud and majestic

I will explore land and sea

Grasp all that there is for me


Be the robin I’m meant to be.


Shonel Jackson




Poem 4

Something in the air


Looking from here

I see worlds in dark eyes,

A long journey through snow and rain

Till, cold claws no longer cold,


The red I carry in feathered faithfulness

Like a sign making real the thing it signifies,

Warm comes again.


Michael Docker


Poem 5

The Ruddock


appearing always like an afterthought,

this blood-breasted, cocked head semicolon

skips before me as I light a cigarette.


Adjusting my sweat-rimmed bunnet

and sighing the fumes in two columns

to the rolling slate-grey sky;

the Ruddock arrives to help weather

the storm.


Is it a practitioner of aeromancy –

this muse of Christmas –

or merely a comforter of the broken?


Will it sing into my soil-stained ear?

Though I am not the son of G*d,

and I have no wounds to use as stain;


I am still a son.


Will it bring water to my chapped lips,

as it seeks to ferry the contents

of my freshly-filled pond to the parched souls

of Purgartory?


I hold my beer up as if to say “I’m fine”.


Will it string the first falling leaves

of autumn into a pastoral-patchwork

shroud; anticipating the end of grief?


I am not a prettye babe in the wood though.


I am man in my garden surrounded

by pales of boulders,

spade-scraped markings,


warm-glass bottles, label peeled;


the catalyst for change.


The Ruddock – content with this afterthought –

blood-breasted and cocked head,

it skips away as I crush my cigarette.


Adjusting my sweat-rimmed bunnet

and shivering as the wind strikes up

from the rolling slate-grey sky;


we retreat to our homes

of house or hedgerow


to avoid the storm.


Tomas Bird


Poem 6

We remember


The birds came to visit you,

they came to see if the time was right.

From the rooftop of your living,

to tap the window of your death.


They waited in preparation

on the top of a bush,

visible to us all.

Not a warning,

but a reminder that the time was coming.


One was bid to lead you and came to the sill,

tapping impatiently,

like heaven’s finger’s drumming

and you tried to tell us you had to go.


And the tears and years move on

and you come and sing your song.

And we remember

and we remember.


Angie Butler


Poem 7

Winter Dawn

Tiny feet cling to the edge
of the icing scattered wall.
Just up from the street sign…
not far from the traffic lights.

Black bead eyes and red breast
watch, this way, that as the town wakes
and school taxis and sleepy students
pour past on an automated journey.

Sunlight fights with frozen puddles
the battle she always wins,
thin covering cracks and water
once again becomes liquid for the tired robin.


Andrew Scotson


Poem 8

Red on Limestone Walls  


On the colour wheel

mix red with a lichen green,

Robin Redbreast tweets


Johana Boal


Poem 9



Crimson breast, darting glance;

Partner in cold winter’s dance.

Spirit bird of Shaman’s law:

Let go the past; sing, love and soar.


Stephanie Haxton