Wren poem

Here is a poem I wrote for my mother's birthday about fifteen years ago.

THE WREN

She makes her home in hollow, hidden places
Away from fox's scent and human sight.
A tiny hole in ivy will provide
A front door fringed with fern and brushed by briar.
A dark and twiggy space becomes her window,
A dappled latticework of day and night
Through which the spider parachutes for prey;
A bush her garden, and for jewels she has
The diamante necklace of the rain.
Like Morse code, her erratic, darting flight
Is worked in dots and dashes. Brash and bright
Her singing, while her quick, sharp, golden beak
Stabs the slow moth with music in the dusty light.