The Birds (Morning Spool)

Tits make such sweet tweets
But they wake up so early.
Couldn't they forget
To set their alarm
Or are they, like me, bestirred
By a dissonant milk float,
Chauffeured by a dead man?
The orange pollution
Makes for a pursed beak,
It takes away a slice of sky ~
The only real reality.

I yawn into a reluctant morning,
Torture a soft-yolker with soldiers.
Time flies like a bastard kestrel,
Listening to my homebirds sing,
Sounding silvery axe blows
Whilst reading guides to this season's nests.
And so I must go, take my place
On a plane bound for disgrace.
I look outside the dusty window
And imagine a world on the wing.

B.R. 1998, revised 2013