THE FINCH IN WINTER

The southern winds calls them,
Call them loud and clear
When the first hoare frost
Touches with gentle cruelty
The branches of each tree.

One pretty finch in the garden
Seemed to have a broken wing.
He hopped and chirruped
Like the rest but only flew
To the roof, t’was all he could do

He had a mate, he did his share
The best he could to build a nest
At the corner of the chimney,
It was a joy to hear them sing
Every morning, such a simple thing.

What would happen to our friend
The finch, with the broken wing,
When the iron grasp of winter
Sends the others flying far away,
Would he live through each cold day?

His mate stayed close beside him
Though her wings were strong.
We fed them our stale bread and seed.
Would this be enough for their need?

Each day we watch to see them
Come down to eat their fill,
Their tiny bodies fattened
By the fluffed feathers bright,
It was quite a pretty sight.


Water froze fast in the cold,
Yet they came down each day
To drink and eat the seed,
Would they make the spring?
Would we hear them sing?

Oh dear little finches brave
Hang on to life in these times.
For spring will come to us,
Warmer breezes will blow,
Gone will be all the snow.

One morning when April came
We heard the sweetest sound,
Our little friends were singing
As they sat on a near by tree,
They had made it you see.

If he had been all alone,
No mate to share the pain,
No warmth to share at night,
Do you think he’d be there
Singing without a single care?

No, I feel he would have died,
Not from lack of food or drink,
But what everyone needs most,
Someone to love and care for,
Something that’s worth living for.

M Ann Margetson April 9 1998.



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