A new poem about the ash cloud

Five miles up, the hush and shoosh of ash,

yet the sky is as clean as a wiped slate-

I could write my childhood there. Selfish

to sit in this garden, listening to the past-

a gentleman bee wooing its flower, a lawnmower-

when grounded planes mean ruined plans, holidays

on hold, sore absences from weddings, funerals,

wingless commerce.

But Britain’s birds

sing in this spring, from Inverness to Liverpool,

from Crieff to Cardiff, Oxford, London Town,

Land’s End to John O’ Groats; the music silence summons,

that Shakespeare heard, Burns, Edward Thomas; briefly, us.

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