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?