A chorus of yellow trumpets
are held silently to a sun
that doesn’t want to play.

I prep a shoulder of lamb
for its ceremonial consumption:
a mid-week meat ****.

One eye on the clock (always),
one on the world-window:
I’m blinded by both,

as blind as the buttercups
that unconsciously reach
for a light that has yet to breach

our clouded notions of reality.
The birds are in constant alarm.