Robin at The Equinox

Light and dark sit in a momentary balance -
the underside of a cloud muffling all but this
perennial busker - April’s rousing chorus of anticipation
long left, lost among all the ‘things we were going to do’ days

no single hour is truly settled in this coming season,
fields tied to their emptiness, to die - to sleep(?)
labours spent and underneath - among dampness and decay -
newness lays ready, preparing to find its place on the next starting line

this is no occasion for melancholy, sings the little firebrand -
it could almost be anytime, looking out of the window
until rain thickens the pane and a strengthening breeze
takes the first crisp leaves to west-facing doorways

while fickle tourists lift and gather,
looking down at us as they go
noting what we’ve done with yet another chance to grow -
gone as quickly as this evaporating puddle

there now, the sun setting,
under the south cliff, a cresting wave
crashes into the island on which we live
somewhere in a passing half-light.