River hidden in the wood,
do you mean us harm or good.
Cicada, without your song,
days are colder, nights long.
Why, Aspen Leaf, do you tremble
when there's no wind at all.
Your flight, Swallow, cannot mend
this torn world it seems to mend.
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O Mother put on the kettle –
I am certain of so little.
*
Bell you strike the hour of eight.
We all know it's getting late.
Open, Beetle, your lovely back,
try to show us what we lack.
Loving scarf of Atmosphere
we pluck your threads, we interfere.
Grass prepare your sharpest blade.
They say it's time our debts were paid.
Third planet from the sun,
what have we done, what have we done.
Mark Roper’s latest collection is Bindweed (Dedalus Press)
