The Whirlybirds Pod Poem by Mark Heathcote

Death is falling through the air
like a maple tree's whirlybird pod.
Why does it 'switch on the wind' mid-air?
Right then left, why does it maraud?

As we see its flurry, never in a hurry
in the wind, almost giving up hope
that still might fly away timely,
that 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 falling through the air.
And is its soul like the first tangible leaf?
In the heat of the maple's glowing flare
is it whirling up on that first step of the stairs?

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 too shall forbear.