Song Bird

The robin sings,
poppy-breasted in leaf light -
a moment of sky warbling

is an out-take of quiet air
before the traffic's drowning blare.

But if you topped a fairy glade
above the murmur of blue bells
still your song would stall and fade:

you're a beady-eyed killer
full-throated, bloody-breasted,
piercing the breeze with beautiful threats.

I know your many guises:
the shining valleys of discontent,
the face of heaven darting fire.

Beauty is not truth:
ephemeral, the lie of ages;
we are ever Time's agitators

building motorways through Eden.