Poetry Corner

Wren

All in a flap
Photo by Katy Read
 
 There is a wren in our back garden
 who doesn’t even know
 the name of the Prime Minister.
  
 Smooth and round and perfect
 (the wren, that is)
 it flits around in the browning
 of bush branches.
  
 Needing no leader,
 its only boss the sun
 rings a lark alarm clock
 for start of shift.
  
 Breakfasted and kids fed,
 wren takes the red-eye flight
 and all the livelong day
 sings its songs of freedom. 

Harry Gallagher

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