by Little Red
Wrote it for school, in the style of Gillian Clarke, not a fan, but i quite like this
|Far afield, where grasses grow in scattered clumps
Where, unperceived by men in suits and cars
Many stare but do not see, they miss with idle minds
What birds do find when they toss and turn like Ferris wheels,
Like turbines that are so private, so silent
And yet so imposing to those who live in cities, far down the tarmac mile.
The cars follow each other faithfully, a long unbroken sentence.
Hostility is reflected in wing-mirrors and tyre rims, but high above
The crows and blackbirds cartwheel around one another, dipping and tumbling
Until they level with the flat peaks of the cars, and, feeling the vibrations
Of engines and angry drivers, freewheel up to where the air is cooler, more humane.
O, if we knew what we do, when we steal
The air and return it tainted, perhaps we would hear that the birdsong is not a serenade
But a warning, a lamentation of the way we live and what we have done.
The birds fly up and away, but we are grounded, we are sinking.