Your song rings out like the bells from the church, your small body fills the countryside with music from the small heart within. Beak open wide breast pushed out your sweet high pitched notes bounce from tree to tree.
The snow rests on the forest floor the Crocus waits to see the light once more. Still you sit on the garden fence longing for spring once more. You know he waits camera in hand the man behind the lens for you to fly to capture your wings as you raise so high then land.
Carried from the forest floor to his home to the warmth that you once knew when the sun touched your branches golden and red so true.
He looks for the image one he can remember, to make into a figure from wood, wood from your forest you sat on one day now down through a storm that came our way. No rotten life for you Rowan tree you will come home with me to live again through the carvers hand.
Now your in the Carvers hand, he feels the touch of the grain, smells your sweet fragrance drift from your bark as its stripped by the blade he makes his mark. He pictures your image once seen through his lens, his knife makes the cut again and again
The carver sings a song as the chisel cuts wing shapes, feathers and your round eye, your coming to life again slowly he checks your shape only the best will do.
Slowly and gently the fine mesh smooths your body to finish your shape. Your a wooden bird made from love by the Photographer who knows you so well. Its for you my little Robin Red Breast to give you back your life so you sit on a table, by the fire Place, in a window, chest glowing once more in the midday sun.