There’s a pale canary,
stuck in a cage.
It’s being taped
singing without a page. And there are
chains in the overtones
and overtones in the chains.
Singing for hours
despite being unwell,
energy going flat
like clearfell. And eventually
losing the use of both wings –
but still the caged canary sings.
We watch on as
the lights go off and we
watch on as the sky
fills in grey. You just
keep buying your clothes. You just
keep looking at the time. You just
keep staring at your phone.
Nobody notices that the
red-tipped spruce has
turned to grey.
Nobody notices that
we have lost another entire day.
Disquieting, the echoes
reminding us of forest,
until there are no echoes.
Constricted, we are the canary,
we are and there is no other
and soon there will be no forest.
And is anyone listening; is
anybody at all listening?
This is a response to Helen Thomson‘s performance art installation Canary
Photo credit Christopher Windus, edited with Waterlogue
