poet. writer. imposter.
A wheatear cocks it’s head
neck stuttering as it tries
to focus on the insect buzz
not comprehending that this
is no meal – no mayfly
nor mosquito – but the buzz compels
and from the top of this concrete
parabola – where distance contracts
and sound takes on new volume –
it waits in vain as it’s wood and canvas
cousin, cover blown – hemp and oil riven
by spiteful iron stings – dives beneath
the waiting waves to a uniform chorus
of “top hole” and “glory be.”
The wheatear cocks it’s head, unconcerned.
Behind him, marshland beckons.