Seven pheasants adventured this far
into your city, along its river fringes,
(despite threats from the hunter's gun)
are sign enough of life for me.
Strollers paused above a parapet see
their proud, green necks held straight.
Eyes have bluish, white and red patches.
They stoop between grassblades to eat.
These ones beside the wall's foot run
at first hints of a danger we must be –
not meaning any harm, allowed the time –
late morning in our hiatus holiday.
We've been needing some heartfelt changes,
things accepted for what they are.
Take courage: along the river fringes
seven pheasants had ventured this far.
Published 1996. The mix of dislocation and clumsiness must be intentional...? perhaps echoing the displacement of the pheasants. This is a poet who seems to fear acceptance of things "for what they are." Robinson was once at the heart of Cambridge poetry politics: there are layers of sophistication here that may mean the pheasants aren't even pheasants.
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