At the dark solstice,

the robin reclaimed his place.

Then January was for running amok,

a wandering in space. 

February found the wren,

hiding in the brambles.

There forlorn, and starving

into an unforgiving March.

With rains became the change,

April is always in flux. 

May brought him hope,

surely now the light was turning,

bringing better luck?

So it is robin’s turn to go now,

June is luminous but cruel.

Sweet smelling through July;

wren crowed just like a lark.

August is a month of peace,

no sparring and no one spurned.

The falling leaves of September,

ask for nothing in return.

October, it’s a shortening,

partially obscuring night and day.

November leaves us wondering

and endless battling, into the fray.