midwinter (out my window)

(after William Bronk)

back then was much the same
the scope, the skies:
blues and greens, scarlet cloud-tops
the moon electric on the washing line.

much the same
but for its crowded malls, its touching
simplicity, a playground
painted blue and green, a yellow swing.

now there’s a robin robin robin in my window
(in each quadrant of my screen)
one a tuft amongst the green, one in snow
black branches breast braving the blue.

green on green, overlapping scenes
entranced I stay for hours (or so it seems)
while the blue, brighter still in the sky,
tapers into pearl, into grey.

‘A few months and I barely remember,’ you say
your hand tight in mine but easing.
‘We’re here,’ I say. ‘We’re here,
and the world is lovely just the same.’


Images Robins (Erithacus rubecula) from Flickr Creative Commons (thanks Kev Chapman; Jez ; Richard Wiseman).

A ‘looking out my window piece’ inspired by William Bronk’s Midsummer poem and the sad news that Victoria is experiencing a second-wave of COVID-19 infections, with Melbourne entering lock-down again.

Shared on Dverse, the poet’s pub – where I’m hosting the bar  – and we’re all looking out the window.

And here’s Miles with Blue in Green (just skip the ads…)

 

 

32 thoughts on “midwinter (out my window)

  1. This is really beautiful, Peter. The view of the birds is quite majestic, and you describe it as such in your marvelous poem. Excellent piece, and I thank you for the prompt today. That was a brilliant topic as it provides so much inspiration and vibrant imagery.

    Liked by 3 people

  2. Nature is such a gift in these Covid days to remind us that the world is still lovely just the same. On the sill of the window that overlooks our back yard birdfeeders sits a plaque that reads “Be Still and Know That I Am God”. Nature does that for us, does it not?

    Liked by 2 people

  3. What a lovely cadence to your verses, like a happy melody to be read out loud. I love the view of the birds, wow! I also love how this ended, hopeful, happy. Thanks for hosting.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. A beautiful poem: I love the metre, and the message at the end. It reminds me of a favourite quote from The Handmaid’s Tale: ‘The moon is a stone and the sky is full of deadly hardware, but oh God, how beautiful anyway.’

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Delightful poem and images, Peter – I love robins, although they are territorial and can be quite spiteful to other birds. The colours in this poem sine through vividly, and I especially love the image of ‘the moon electric on the washing line’ and the lines about the robins:
    ‘one a tuft amongst the green, one in snow
    black branches breast braving the blue.’
    The final stanza resonates and, as Sarah said, throws weight back into the whole poem.

    Like

  6. The robins have multiplied here in NYC during the pandemic too, so your description of one in every quadrant really strikes a chord for me. And they have become unafraid of humans. Strange times.(K)

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Lovely poem; something I’ve wondered–where are you that you call that bird a robin? Looks nothing like what we call a robin (N. Am)

    Like

  8. I liked how you played with colours against the sky and the almost- kaleidoscope view of the bird in your window. I noted the wistful tone… and understood after reading your notes. God help us all through this plague.

    Liked by 1 person

  9. Such an appropriate theme you chose for the prompt, Peter, and, of course, you acquitted it so well for this difficult time we are all enduring. I pray we will grow through it and emerge (soon) a stronger world.

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      1. Les was a super-prolific poet – he has an enormous door-stopper of Collected Works. Here’s The Body in Physics (from ABC radio interview some years ago).

        The air has sides, in a house.
        Birds, whacked from colliding, embrace
        its sheer with umbrella-rib skiddings.
        they gape silent death-cries when closed
        in converging hands, or snatched out
        of such parts of their theory as still fly.
        Carried outside, they pause a beat
        and drop upwards, into gravity that once more
        blows as well as sucks. Fliers’ gravity.

        Like

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