Thomas Land
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
our time is running out.
Page(s) 21
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