The Butcher Bird

Enamoured by majestic hunter’s charm
Was I, in warm yet frozen lands afar;
Prepared to fly at whim, lest distance mar
The plumage of a summer free and calm
And undisturbed by panes of truth concealed:
Yet now, in new collisions, fast revealed.

For hunger and for flesh she is impaled:
A butterfly, now torn to ribbons, pleads
Not guilty; asking nothing as she bleeds,
And blamed for reckless flight by those she hailed.
“A songbird’s wrath? Ridiculous,” they say;
“Is carnage not reserved for birds of prey?”

A dormant dormouse keeps one eye awake,
Attentive and exhausted from your chase;
Relentless, tiny claws have scarred her face
As from your crushing grasp she fought to break.
But unperturbed, you sought her mossy nest
And slaughtered her along with all the rest.

A newly-tumbled fledgling steals your eye:
A sparrow, bathed in sand, fears not your song,
For youth deprives her caution: what is wrong
With chatters uttered warmly from the sky?
But victim too is she, laid bare for all;
Now torn from forest floor, duped by your call.

A butcher bird are you, beloved past,
Yet instinct weighs not lightly on your mind;
Each action is a mark that trails behind,
Your feathers red and flight from justice fast,
And I can but await, one day assuaged
When then, at last, the mindful shrike is caged.