morning in the world

Sitting in the cosy corner of the garden that I call the bower.
From here you can't see the house.
Everything is trees and leaves and earth and sky and memories.
I am on a wooden bench.
There's an old wagon wheel nearby and a rusty plough.
Sunlight is washing through the world.
A robin alights on a branch above me.
He begins an aria.
A moving piece in tribute to a life.
We haven't had a robin in the garden for months.
When they come I regard them as messengers by the grace of God from my mother in heaven.
So I know the hour is close.