The Boy and the Robin

The Boy and the Robin



The boy

Crouched behind a fallen tree,

Once a forest giant,

Arrow fitted to the home-made bow,

Taut but pliant.



The robin

No doubt had seen the boy before at play

Therefore

Had no fear of him throughout a day


The robin fluffed himself against the cold

And sang.

The boy,

a hunter now, brave and bold

Drew back the string and - twang!

The arrow sped but erred in flight

But broke the song



The boy,

A killer now, flung the bow,

Forgetting right

From wrong

And with mingled joy and dread

Saw red feathers scatter from the below

And the robin

Broken, battered, lying dead.



The boy

Picked up the shattered bird

And strange emotions surged within his breast.

Crooning soothing, pitying words,

He smoothed the robin's vest.



A new sound now

Cut into the boy's despair,

For in the branches of a lower bough

A nest of tiny robins crying there.

And though the years that lay ahead,

To no man he admitted

The story of a robin, dead,

A crime a boy committed.




by Jack Davis