The robin is a liar.
The sweet soft words that form his song
are false, are libellously wrong,
his feathered pants on fire.
The oak he sings from, too,
its leaves pumped up with chlorophyll
to have us think itís summer still;
thatís utterly untrue.
The landscape is a fake,
a trompe-líoeil of foreshortening.
There flatly isnít such a thing.
You see your big mistake?
The earthís blue spinning ball;
that skinís a trick of light and air
that looks to be, but isnít there.
It isnít there at all.
If you have any comments on this poem, Mark Totterdell would be pleased to hear from