They are my favourites.
Amazing to hear them sing in the yellow light of deserted streets in winter.
One mournful, pensive,
awake when no one else is.

The other has a rich, creamy trilling.
Clear, pure, exultant.
Ultimately tiny.

Both hold a special place in my heart.
One reminds me of college days cycling home from Chandra’s.

The other revives childhood memories of
holidays in Oysterhaven with
my grandparents and cousins.
Early mornings birdwatching with Dee.
Always the wren singing.

Now I listen to the dawn chorus, picking out the robins and wrens
as they sing their hearts out
warning their neighbours away.

It is light now, and I look out the window to catch sight of them.
Instead, I see Pippin on the patio,
head cocked in question, one ear up, the other down, as he watches me.

And then I see Cillian who flew the nest seven nights ago.
He is outside watching us both.
Our eyes meet, and we smile at one another
in a current of complete understanding.

In that moment,
I know there is only love.

I wake to hear robins and wrens leading the dawn chorus.