Spring In Mariupol
The birdscarers have been at work in Mariupol.
Not with firecrackers in barrels
But shells and rockets.
There is no birdsong in the trees in Mariupol.
The birds have left.
There are no trees.
The trees are splinters.
The flowers that bloom are Pion shells,
Blossoming red among apartment blocks.
Spring recoils at Mariupol.
An ashen winter has corroded buildings,
Left bleached and blackened skeletons;
A winter made in munitions factories
And spread broadcast like cancered seed.
There is no perfume of spring blossom in the air;
The smell of burning drifts across the rubble and
Sweet, sickly odours hang heavy.
There is no birdsong in the trees in Mariupol.
The birds have left,
All but the carrion crows.
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