Where Bluebirds Fly
Above image courtesy of the RSPB
They have cut down the trees
on which I hung my thoughts
for rearrangement
into coherent patterns
The branches were arteries
that turned my inspiration
into textured leaf
evergreen, sturdy, holm oaks
from the Mediterranean
whispering of sunflowers
rosemary, olives and lemons
in their natural element
sports ground of squirrels
schola cantorum of rooks
the wings of collar-doves
sunspread upon the boughs
On windy days they rocked
with interior knowledge
of history and compound time
frail scions now remnants of hope
They have slaughtered my trees
in the full flush of being
for fear of litigation
and rumours of frenzied gales
Mammon destroys the planet
I said to the Lord. Why must it?
Behold the new perspective, he said
I am giving you the skies.
Above image courtesy of Tom Pirro
