Sparrow

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

The spring has sprung, and the huntress sets
her wicked toothed traps expertly concealed
in bitter dandelions, new nettles,
fragrant wormwood and the long, lush grass
comprising the undergrowth of my dreams.
I've grown wise to this palaver of buttered banality,
bilious blandishments and hollow flattery -
it'll get you nowhere, my fine sparrow with plumage
richer than the most ridiculous peacock.
Garish too are the painted songbirds
that you release in my overgrown inner landscape,
a veritable jungle clogged with unnecessary foliage,
the awful truth cloaked with the appealing/appalling
untruths that they utter to tempt me, sweet-talking me
with the sugar coated words that you told them
I wanted to hear. And it goes without saying
that I have grown too cunning to stumble into
the birdlime that you smeared on the branches
of the tree of life, the tree of lies, the black,
tormented tree of unrequited retribution -
'eat my scrumptious fruit,' it pleads, but if I obey
I fear I'll fall asleep for a hundred thousand years.