Late and Ashen
I play your C# again,
And you pull out slightly.
Too impatient, the birds resume
Their lovely late afternoon anthem.
But one of May's songs sings differently.
The tale of a lifeless sparrow clinging tight
To a tree, making for one peculiar looking leaf.
One defying death-grip remains, as an ant,
Trying to discern decaying flesh from fungus,
Banquets upon the eye.
You forget where life comes from.
Always the soil thirsts for new carcasses.
Spring follows the late and ashen,
But it’s these things you forget.
You are the parasite, devourer of life,
Bringer of the quiet night,
Drowner of the crickets will.
Life must feed off the dead,
And, like the branch the sparrow’s clutch chokes,
You gorge upon the living.
Anyway, let's get on with it.
If you lick the reed enough times
Eventually a song of spring we will play
Before this very parliament.
God knows the fowls have waited long enough.