The Dead Shearwater

There is some triumph
For the battered clot
Of grey tumbled
On the sand.
The disaray of feathers
Won for its kind
A brief statistic
Of species survival.
The tumble of babies
That daily, hourly,
By the minute
That do not die
Store future death.
Locusts strip the
World of green.
Worms eat out the
Apple to a husk.
What will You do
Oh man to justify
your bread
And circuses
To your
Children’s Children’s
Children?

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s