Late in the Afternoon

Late in the afternoon,
sitting in a shady garden spot,
watching the bird feeders,
it seemed like Heathrow
with all the swooping and gliding
in for landings on the perches.

The little ones,
flittered and swiftly darted
from and to the small protective tree,
before making off to a farther bush
carrying their dinners of
sunflower hearts
to nibble away in peace.

I counted eight different
kinds of tits and finches,
missing the robins, blackbirds,
corvids, woodpeckers, collard doves,
and wood pigeons
who also frequent the feeders
or scrounge the ground beneath.

What struck me most
in the stillness and silence
of the late afternoon
was being able to hear
the beating of their tiny wings,
single birds fluttering,
the soft whoshing and wha-wha,
not so different except in
volume to that of swans
flying overhead or geese.

In the distance,
swooping almost beyond
the range of seeing,
the swifts chittered
swished through the sky,
and a lone buzzard rode
the thermals in lazy arcs
as the evening began
slowly gliding to steal
the late afternoon’s warmth
and herald the ending of another day.

Traffic

The sound of traffic
unremitting roar upon the A roads,
incessant rumble over the M roads,
hurtling at speed
east going west returning,
north outgoing south incoming,
long weekends far from the city
taking the noise and crowdedness
trying to convince themselves
travel truly is a respite
a retreat an escape,
from the daily grind of the commute
dawn and dusk
daylight and darkness
into and out of the self-same
urban nightmare
homing to the suburban dream.

The unremitting roar
reminiscent of the sea surrounding,
rumble like incessant rolling thunder,
assaulting the senses,
engines never ceasing
bellowing with more speed
howling for more fuel
have replaced the dinosaurs’
reverberating boom no longer heard,
though for decades now renewed
resounding once again in engines
gulping down the liquid remains
of what once nourished reptilian monsters
to satisfy their insatiable hunger,
which in truth is ours alone
to go farther
get there faster
arrive in greater comfort.

Guzzling the interred remains
of the land titans’ food,
those once great
crushers of primeval forests
and each other under foot,
to sate modernity’s thirst
striping out the forests
making room for yet more
roads to accommodate
the multi-wheeled carriers,
once they the servants
now we the slaves,
roaring unremittingly as the restless sea,
rumbling incessantly as ongoing thunder
constant motion
never silent
always sound and movement,
upon the A roads,
over the M roads,
crisscrossing the land
gobbling up the landscape.
awaiting their inevitable extinction.