The Robins Nest. (Revised).

 There, lodged between the church door

And the wooden door handle,

Deep in the narrow dark, the hand deep

                                                     chasm,

Protected from the rain by the entrance

                                                     porch,

Was the neatest of robins nests,

So neat and tidy it should have won prizes,

Or at least a brief mention

In a house-care magazine.

I peered into the narrow dark, marvelling

                                                  how small

And cramped a living quarters

This family of robins required to feel at home.

No thing out of order, each twig slotted into

                                                              place,

All things plain and useful, no thing overdone.

Saint Francis would have approved of such 

                                                        frugality,

Remarking how safe and warm this fragile

                                                           nest is,

Discretely out of view in a public space.

A well kept home, snug behind the door 

                                                     handle

Of a quiet suburban church.

And now, as I sit at my desk, writing this

                                                         poem,

I wonder why I need eight rooms and a loft

To feel at ease in;

The front door chained and bolted, the windows

                                            always locked.

 Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

May 6th. - 11th. 2021.