Your red-rimmed, mystic, all-seeing eye
that asks of us the question …
why you’re first to rise, not we
in time to hear your cry.
A share of this full Earth is how,
you feed your Spring-time pride.
An earthworm meal is all you ever
ask it to provide.
Months of dry and we forget
enslaving you to sink …
your beak in water anywhere
but n’er a drop to drink.
Yet you gift your song’s duet,
its echoes beguile, but we,
by our neglect, ignore your need
and forget to think of thee.
© 2018 John Anstie
All rights reserved