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THE robin to our terrace comes

Three times a day, in search of crumbs.

He has to be quite slick,

For out of trees and on flower border,

Swoop magpies, all in pecking order;

Jays too – ‘look out – be quick’!

And then, for a few weeks a year,

He has a great deal more to fear,

From gliding sparrowhawks,

Who know of the feeding station,

Much to robin’s consternation.

‘Stay home – no hops – no walks’!

Then, raptors gone, back out he flies,

Fluffing his red breast to the skies;

Irrepressible little bird.

Foraging for his family,

On fine food from RSPB.

We watch – our spirits – stirred.

Don Filliston