The Dying Bullfinch


A Bulfinch pillar box red caught my eye
fluttering helpless in the broad bean rows

took to my open held out hand with no fight left
opening its beak to weakly peck its only sign
of resistance and with one last gasp took flight
into the heaped bush where the Sparrow flock
goes crazy at the intruder’s sorrowful mistake.

And so we shroud ourselves in Pilate’s cloak
wash our hands of the stain of all responsibility
and look out on this world with all the disdain
the falsely blamed feel and what’s left — silence.




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