The birds in my garden don’t listen to the news,
can’t know of Covid-19 or the world in lockdown,
are ignorant of families struggling in poverty or grief,
their exuberance counters the Today programme’s bombast.
The midges floating in spring scent disregard Assad’s brutality,
are blind to death on Yemeni streets.
The buds burst forth despite global debt,
their domain erupting into growth.
The leaves hip-hop to the wind’s gentle tune,
drowning out Trump’s rant
with the oblivious chatter of resurgence.