Each time that I observe the world,
I should spy beauty, peace and love.
Each time I listen, I should hear
The soft song of birds, or at most
The low hum of conversation.
But when I crane my neck,
Look up, down or sideways,
In front or behind me,
Or at some frantic screen,
Or catch imagined exploits,
Mouthed off on a train, or neighbours,
Hyped up in angry gatepost chat,
There’s just the sight and sound of war.
Where is love now? When will birds sing?