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?