The Silence Is Most Permanent Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Robin, robin red breast,
where's your nest?
Is it in the garden of eternal rest,
with a holly thorn against your throat?

Do you sway among yew boughs,
still as the stone that wears no name?
Do you know whose grave you've claimed?

Robin, robin red breast,
you carry a worm from the open grave,
you small red tyrant, unrepentant,
perched where the silence is most permanent.

A chilling telltale mark resides on your chest,
the crimson breast of a mother on her nest.
When the magpies hover overhead,
who protects you and your eggs?

So many times you've kept me company,
hopping close, unafraid of me —
the hole I dug that day for an infant child
left me wishing it were mine, not a child's.


Version 2.


Robin, Robin Red Breast
Robin, robin red breast,
where's your nest?
Is it in the garden of eternal rest,

a holly thorn against your chest?
Do you sway among yew boughs,
still as the stone that wears no name?
Do you know whose grave you've claimed?

Robin, robin red breast,
you bring me frivolous excitement,
a small red tyrant, unrepentant,
perched where the silence is most permanent.

So many times you've kept me company,
hopping close, unafraid of me
A hole dug for an infant child
A mother's pain that'll never be reconciled

The hole I dug that day for an infant child
Left me wishing it was for me


Version 1.