Treasure Island

Mark Heathcote

(22/03/66 / Manchester)

The whirlybirds pod


Death is it falling through the air
Like a maple trees whirlybird pod.
Why does it “switch on the wind” mid-air?
Right then left, why does it maraud…?

As we sees its flurry, never in a hurry
In the wind almost, giving-up hope
That it still might fly away timely,
That it still might somehow elope.

It switches with a heavy hearts morass
It swirls it falls it falls it falls – until
It empties the last grains of our hourglass
Until it takes root in the quiet hearts shrill.

Death is it falling through the air
And is its soul like the first tangible leaf?
In the heat of the maples glowing flare
Is it whirling-up-on that first step of the stair…?

Oh whirlybird pod show us you’re grief…
Show us deep in your roots you care
Oh whirlybirds pod share with us your beliefs
Show us through your roots we to shall forbear.

Submitted: Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Edited: Thursday, July 25, 2013
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