Lines - Richard Fleming

Where is the birdsong and why this spring no flowers?
And in the minutes after church bells ring,
why no departing rooks, this evening,
from the tall trees around the old churchyard?

Why have the fields become silent, devoid of grasshopper or bee?
Why are the fruit trees barren?
Why does the sea move sickly, like tar? How can it be
that the fishing boats come back empty each morning?

What has become of our summers
or the refrain of west wind in the chimney pots
or the fresh rain of spring mornings? Will the swallows return again?
Why are our rivers dry when there is so much weeping?

The seasons, which had soaring highs, then dipping lows before,
have now a dull monotony: they come and go unheeded:
one flat line running east to west and reminiscent so
of lines, on monitors, which signal that the heart is dead.

Richard Fleming
This poem appears in Richard’s second poetry collection, Strange Journey.

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