|We said an early farewell to a not-cold-enough winter,
worried if spring, once more, would be a too-dry season
because of a climate catastrophe we could not fully comprehend.
How small our worries then – or so it seems now!
Locked in, locked down we listen
to birds returning, building homes on branches, unperturbed,
in trees growing beside our homes we become
acquainted with again, have even learned to despise.
Homes we have quickly learned to be hacked off about –
we sit and watch television
will not be revolutionized, so, after all, there might be something
to be said, to be sung in favour of birdsong –
melodies like stories waiting to be heard.
Or we’re out and about as far
as we’re allowed for a stroll down by the river,
into the countryside where system-relevant
farmers have resorted hard clumps of soil –
earth turned upside down after the ploughshare.
The day will come when we can unlock and catch up again
by the river, in the fields, in pubs and pavement cafes.
Let our voices, then, be a summer’s green –
melodies like stories waiting to be told.