Poem: Murmur

black and green humming bird perched on wood branch

Photo by Flickr on Pexels.com

There’s not a breath of wind,
the dark silhouettes of starlings
bedeck the listless droop of the willow.
This gathering for the fall
is nature’s soul reclaiming its own,
whilst we, confident in our ignorance,
our sovereign separation from the core,
have the gall to wonder at murmurations
as if seen for the first time –
as if we play no part in it.
Medieval minds had more wisdom than this;
they looked at the world for what it was,
in balance and in tune, sowing and reaping,
whilst we know only how to reap
in anticipation of no tomorrow,
sowing the seed of our own demise.
How the starlings will murmur.

copyright Francis Barker 2019

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