Trail On (6) The Caterpillar Bedroom

A small, silken nest
strung up in the hawthorn tree branch
he cut and carried to his bedroom.

A nest of squirms:
freshly hatched tent caterpillars
bristle with blaze of red hairs.

Mounts the branch on his window
so he can watch how they explore:
thread a white trail up the glass

for the others to follow.
He breaks a trail to see them
return down the same line,

until one bridges the gap
and the others follow.
Soon white threads cover

ceilings, walls, furniture. Exploratory
Expeditions. He delights
in fingerswipes across their routes.

Controls their maps

Rock Says,

Enough! Years I’ve let you

walk all over, clamber
all over, stab me with
steel pinions to secure
your sense of comfort.

It’s time for me to forego
this malaise and move
like stone giants
In your legends.

Stretch my legs, work
these tired sinews.
I’m doing you a favour.

I warn you. So you can
become refugees
once your home
Is rubble and you flee
the fires and explosions,

as if I have declared war
on you, when all I’m
doing is moving.”

Gust Says,

“Enough. I’m sick
of being the only one

who moves things about.
It’s regime change.

I will not be moved. Dust,
leaves, cans, paper will

have to move themselves.
Windfarms using my service

without a thought to what
I want. Waves too. Totally

oblivious to my needs.
It’s an effort to stay still,

but I will do it. I’m no longer
the wind of change. Do it

yourselves. How do you
make a difference?

Put your lips together
and blow.”