aproprose, 21st February 2017

the sound of spring is
strafing and peppering the air
in bird song far from overdue but earlier
far earlier than earlier it was last year
unfurling as it does it’s morn’
or symphony
take your choice it’s all the same
to me though not the sound of birds that
chiff or chaff or
chuff or click or scratch or boom or
suddenly explode their reams of trills and
shrills and not a
tweet in sight (nor ear!)
while politicians bluster each
their own distinctive ‘song’
or snort, or burp or fart or
absurd guffaw haw-haw while they fuss
and they muster their blunders and
bluster in bundles of lies or
at best a half-truth
(which I’m sure won’t
do any harm……. perhaps)
seasoned with lashings of exaggeration
that drips from the laps of their
overweight laughs
from the hallowing, harrowing, crumbling halls
made of oak become stained by
their nicotine throats and their
leathery skin on their
leathery seats adversarial green they sit
playing their games with a roll
of their tongues
and their eyes,
here on the outside, outside
the inside a real world revolves and
struggles to solve all the problems the clowns throw
their way
for better though usually far and more
worse with a curse and hey-nonny-noooooooooo
that it’s no surprise to hear
ranting and raves with a shrug
and a breath of
a resigning sigh
in hope that they make it to pick up a pension
a then and a when maybe they can sit
watching and
counting the birds in hope that the
world is not brought to its knees in the
meantime or meanwhile before they’ll be
popping their clogs or shuffling off or
kicking the bucket or punching the clock or
getting their wings maybe meeting their maker or
calling last orders or giving up ghosts, even
biting the dust or buying the farm or pushing up daisies or
feeding the worms
and no doubt the birds will be
singing too soon under still-winter moons
and the dish will elope
with the spoon.

© robert greig


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