Poems

Wrens

© tonymills / AdobeStock

By Dave Goulder 

A fierce winter; 
the coldest for many years. 
Here in the village 
the air hurts. 
It is minus 27C. 
Wrens are crammed
into an old hamster box 
Under the eaves 
of the lean-to. 
They are shuffling constantly. 

In the morning 
taking out the ashes, I find 
eleven corpses 
below the box. 
Inside, still shuffling survivors 
struggle for warmth.
Tonight it will be cold again.

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