The garden brims with delights.
The sparrow sings
With the intensity and irrelevance of first love.
All the jobs I have to do stare back at me
And I think that we are the spastics of nature,
But that I must remind myself not to write that down
Because it might be offensive to someone.
Bumble bees have always been one of my favourites,
Hovering over the damp, cut grass in the sunshine.
I feel silly saying it,
As they bumble around until someone squashes them,
Or they get hit by a car,
Or put in a jar,
And I’m sure the others don’t even notice
Much less acknowledge
The sudden death of such a great number of their colleagues
Under such tragic circumstances.
No comments:
Post a Comment