All The Dead Birds

I saw a dead baby bird this morning.

Walking back from the shop

Thinking about lunch,

I nearly stepped on its

Ugly grey skeleton,

Emaciated without its feathers,

Its mouth still open from an unsung cry.



I wanted to put it away,

Mourn it and bury it

And hide its sorrowful frame

Where no one else would

Stumble and be reminded

Of the birds that fall from nests

Because there is no room for them here.



But what a sin it would be

To hide all the dead birds

As though to dupe

Ourselves and our brothers

Into clinging to this earth

As our belonging-place,

As though we are not passing through chaos,

Homeward bound.