Wrynecks were constantly heard around British Headquarters
during discussions of aerodromes. Swallows looped over the lake.
I watched the salients of their swerves, scribbled on a memo
The destruction of the human population
is no longer such a remote contingency as it used to seem.
There’s a blackbird and a throstle sing on every green tree
I never discuss Allocation of Tonnage or movements of ships
outside this room. I trace the perfected migrations of swifts,
flight patterns of lapwing, scan winter skies for starlings, wait
for the rolling thrum of their sideslip over ministry buildings.
I follow dancing parties of goldfinches on frivolous excursions.
and the larks sing so melodious, sing so melodious
I do not entirely trust the Civil Service. Shortages of bacon and milk
may have caused a curious habit newly observed in bluetits –
papers shredded, notices ripped. Bombing, favourable effects of,
I slot into the card index, between Birmingham and Bradford.
Starlings are roosting now among the anti-aircraft guns.
and the larks sing so melodious at the break of the day
I write The disappearance of the human race from these islands
would perhaps most inconvenience the lesser whitethroat.
A blackbird clamours brazen, jubilant, jubilant,
fireweed and cinders, a shattered hedge.
I shall persist in calling the song thrush a throstle.