In the History-Bird's Beak

Among the roses, searching for thrips I fear it's inevitable as History By the time our grandchildren are old This place will be baked back to scrub

The papers on the garden bench proclaim In black and white that black is white All's "force and fraud" apathy and greed The future still the creature of the past

I dead-head, petals fall delicate As democracy as civilisation itself Ineluctable as global warming At this margin only weeds will flower

But like a cicada in the history-bird's beak Poetry must protest to the death - beyond that.