The Wren Poem by Paul Reed

Stepping warily into a grey morning
With mist shrouding the hedgerows
Damp pavements and frost-bitten walls
Thick socks on to protect the toes

All seemed lifeless and a little forlorn
The way things feel now and then
Until uplifted by a crescendo of sound
The defiant song of the wren

He was perched high on a tree branch
Like a little ball of string
And looked down at me enquiringly
As he reached into his heart to sing

I stood enthralled and listened intently
To his optimistic shrill
Transfixed, I gazed upward at him
And marveled at his will

Which had defeated the winter
Without hat and coat to don
I raised my eyes again to see him
But in that moment he had gone