Robin hoodie - a poem

Recently I had the pleasure of meeting the very talented poet Nikki Grant. Her work, both written and spoken brings to life the crazy world of slugs and bats in a way that had me laughing out loud. She does of course write about other things. She has since explained with some passion the approach poets take to their craft and it has inspired me to have a crack at it.

Now, this could be a bit like an elephant attempting a bit of ballroom, all clunky with lots of flapping and putting important things in the wrong places. But I'm going to attempt it nonetheless.

Do leave comments below if you like it / have some poetry nous to share
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ROBIN HOODIE

Robin, Robin Hoodie
Much misunderstoodie

Deprived of your space
You hide
In the shade, hopping from shadow to shadow.

It's a world dominated.
By the large, the loud, the brash and proud -

Crows on the table, gulls in the sky, why, 

Even the pigeons are street

We loved you when you first came into our world. Christmas is really for you.
But now, now we don't see you, or know where you are -

When you'll be back?

Perhaps it was love? Not enough or too much? Affection? Is that what you need?

A hug?
Oh Robin, Robin hoodie. Much, much misunderstoodie

Name that Robin

An excuse to put these photos up really, but competition time. Ol' Rob here deserves a name for his bravery and I'm not sure he's a Florence (see Battle of Bristol)

"What's the craic?" 

"I think I'm being watched"

"I was right!"

"Hold on, this is my good side"

Was it all a mirage?

Of course not, little prankster

So, suggestions on the comments board/facebook/twitter please for this little gem!

The Battle of Bristol

It was an ambush. Late afternoon, stillness in the air. Last of the day's sun toasting the back of my neck as I admired a long day's toil.

Something was afoot. A rustle here, a squawk there. I wasn't sat far from the table of food. Then, like a scene from Black Hawk Down, the raid began.

I don't know if you've ever stood in a confined space next to half a kilo of killer pigeon but it's enough to put the wind up the most scarred SAS soldier I can tell you. They move the air with the same power and sound as I imagine an apache helicopter to. Deep, meaty beats that sent the branches of the buddleia haywire. Three of them, well all you can do is dive for cover.

Disturbed by my startled movements they retreated, only to take up posts along the walls and the roofs. After a stand off, peppered with near-kamakaze efforts to nab the nuts and seeds, it all boiled down to a well executed pincer movement that had me scuppered.

It wasn't long before the food was gone and I was left dejected and beaten.

I sat on the edge of the raised bed contemplating the point of giving aid to the birds when it all went to the pockets of the big and powerful. And then, quietly and reassuringly from across the garden came this little healer.

Not so much the cavalry, more Florence Nightingale.