There is a tree on a tall precipice,
Where a headless blackbird lies stiff…
Dead: far from life and Nature's claw,
Given over to strife and blood-red teeth.
This bird is carrion for cat or fox,
Added to daily-murdered stock.
The tree, it stands beyond reproof,
Tested, tried, like a bush alight -
Burning, yet not consumed.
A firedrake, where all has been deflowered.
Next to the tree hangs a crowd,
Shouting noisily as if through soundproofed walls.
Why so angry and hardened?
Why curse this hallowed, immoral graveyard?
Littered too and a disgusting contradiction,
Where fruit would help to nourish the afflicted.
An apple with flesh so delicious,
Beneath a carapace: vile and bilious.
If you were to get beneath this skin,
A core sweet and soft within,
You would meet so agreeable and kind;
No bitter soul you should reveal,
Under this acrid-tasting, gallish rind.
A centre 'neath so pure and clean,
Approachable yet unapproachable…
All: candid, new, pale and noble.
