Migration Poem by Richard Blanch

At the first shock the sparrow stirred,
At the rumbling it woke; as the third blow
Fell against the walls it flew,
Crashed into the grimy leaded pane, seeking the blue
Beyond. Plaster fell – and cakes of brick, the cornice,
Decorated, silly, where this
Bird had crawled for warmth. It found a hole, was gone,
Up, and over the changing town -

A spirit no longer wanted where
The shapes against the sunset harden into
Blows against the retina.

And I see it flying more and more,
Out of the painted eyes where the day once played,
Out of the flashing signs where once the grey
Façade lifted itself effortlessly against
A less palpable sky.

How long before this flock soars to the sun,
Leaving behind our waste,
Our faceless end?