Poem Unread

A songbird
does not sing
to please ears
nor does the wave
ask to be listened to –
feel impassioned
timelessly pounding
the shore

no more than
an apple on a tree,
ripe, rosy and red
wants to be picked,
least of all, consumed

nor the moon
give a fig
as to how brightly
it shines; it just does
its own thing
laughs up its sleeve
as it covets
its dark side

nor does a butterfly expect
or even ask to be adored...
photographed or painted...
pinned by its wings
to a board – crucified
in the name of all
it would epitomise...
naivety and freedom.

Nor think, for a minute,
a rose cares two hoots
whether or not it’s pretty
in pink, or how strong, or
how weak its perfume
or that it looks good
in a crystal vase

nor does a sunset
feel moved to be thought of
as romantic, or a harbinger
of the calm before a storm,
for what came first
the sunrise or the soul?

No more than poetry
asks to be read...nor
will mourn for itself,
if what they say
is correct – that it’s
a dying art,
for why should it?

It knows that words
in the stead of reality
is like looking
for darkness
with a light on.