They’re sacrificed to autumn flights.
Enslaved by time or caught in light,
They’re made to turn ten thousand times:
Reflections of the world below.
The distant skylarks trapped by song,
In endless spirals through the blue,
Must sing and sing and not be done.
Their songs mean nothing to the sun.
The tack and flick of wheatear’s white
Along the crumbling Yarnbury Dam,
Are calls of spirits bound in lead,
Compelled to fight their pointless fights.
And way off by the Grinding House,
A buzzard wheels above the waste.