We are sitting in a slate-roofed brick-built bower

in the ornamental gardens of our

favourite country house. A robin appears

on the flags at our feet. It cocks its head,

so as to better see us with its brown eye.

The three of us wait. Perhaps it has come

for crumbs. It hops under the bench – then flies off,

only to return almost immediately,

and resume its original position.

How fragile its legs seem, thinner than matchsticks,

snappable as twigs. It goes under the bench,

flies off again – and returns. This time

it hops up, and stands within a foot of my coat.

Its red breast close up and out of direct light

is a warm orange. It shats on the green bench.

Its excrement is whiter than snow on grass.

The three of us wait. It flies away,

and does not return. We have been warned.