Routed Birds
 
 
I sing you a song of swarming city rats
that presage the earliest call of spring
for I am a poet of beautiful women
blooming in shopping queues
 
and I sing you a song of the poisoned apple
(the queue is long but the price is wrong)
and I sing of our loss beneath the film
of oil across the oceans
 
and I sing of the nectar of fluttering butterflies
of our doubtful obsolete balance of terror
of the omen of routed dying birds
limping across the sky
 
and I sing you a love song about the land
and I sing you a swan song about the clouds
because I am the poet of our time
and time is running out.

Thomas Land

If you have any comments on this poem, Thomas Land would be pleased to hear from you.

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