Twenty Five Summers Ever More Silent

There is a cry in-between the clouds, and crows,
sandwiched in twisted glass, in micro-invisible worlds
they scream, between the clean green rows,
like swifts in sunset curls.

Lace-wing, plastic-wing, thin bones
like bamboo flutes that crisp and crack,
seeking sun, their threnody drones
among the poisoned flows.

Warm bodies, feathered clay, seek
them in poor grey seas once rich,
and sweep in hunger for the toxic fish.
Lace-wing, plastic-wing.

No work at the mine, or the docks today.
No fish or flies.
No warm bodies, feathered clay,
to cry in-between the clouds, and crows.

There is only silence,
summer snows.