Under a Wicklow mountain,

in a Japanese garden 

the summer robin just sat on a branch

in her orange apron, eye make-up on.  

She was nonplussed, in plain sight, 

indifferent to all the strangers passing through,

who will never pass through again.  

She could have been centuries-old 

or born in April and like a bird in a painting 

by Audoban was very still, an image 

of nonchalance, a creature lost 

in her moment of Zen,

not taking flight or switching branch 

when a camera clicked, a phone rang. 

But where is she now in cold December

and can she remember June and July,

the trees in leaf, us passing by?