Roost

A Quiet Roost

In the golden hush of a late‑afternoon,
when the wind hums through oak leaves, a robin finds
its roost – a snug nest tucked in a hollow branch,
lined with the soft scarlet of fallen autumn feathers.

The old elm whispers, “Take your rest, young friend,”
its bark rough as a weathered pocket‑knife,
and the little bird ruffles its nestling quilt,
savouring the quiet, the safety of a place called home.

Outside, the village hums with a distant clatter –
pints tapping in the pub, children’s footsteps on the lane,
a bus idling in a queue for the nearest bus stop.
Even here, the roost is a world apart: a pocket of breath
where time folds like a soft coat of wool across winter’s chill.

So let the robin hum a lullaby, let the old elm creak a sigh,
for every creature, no matter how small, has a roost, a haven,
a place where colours are gentler, where the world slows down,
and the simple act of resting becomes a quiet defiance against the endless rush of the day.