Above the coast of Marysburgh south
Condemned birds fly and die;
Blood-smeared edge on glinting blades
Soaring bird meets steel-rimmed sky.
Across the field my neighbour shrugs
And looks the other way.
A whip-poor-will’s song and the morning dew
Belie those throbbing blades.
Bequeathed to us, no longer ours,
Restrained by fence and gate;
Cold wind sweeps over our wetland shores
And behemoth blades rotate.