Sonnet 127

I spied a tufted titmouse in a tree,
Against the backdrop of a winter grey;
He blended in so near, so perfectly,
Except the splash of peach he wore was gay.
He took no notice of the frozen blight
As he did flit from crooked branch to branch,
And as he moved he kept me in his sight,
Each move I made, he warily did watch.
I said, ‘sweet titmouse where will you now go,
A blizzard soon upon us, this I hear?
All this, all life soon girded up with snow,
And you but feathered frail, of this I fear.’
He soldiered on, not heeding my behest,
In solemn grey with orange emblazoned chest.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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