The Great Tit, April 2022
The Great Tit couldn’t draw a map
to save his skin,
but lassoes the air
which as he sings becomes him.
He knows nothing of the Moskova
or Mariupol,
but cartwheels tumbling
across the lawn, yellow-
and - black strings scattering
as he streaks to his perch,
shelling the mad kingdoms,
stretching the contours of our garden map,
indifferent to the lies we live by.