Canary

What makes you special is your thirst    
for oxygen, all that fresh O2 required
for flight, extra air sacs, the network

of your bronchi as delicate as lace,
a high note dropping to the dark heart
of the coalface, your trill a litmus test

so when your small fire gutters
at the first sick seep of firedamp,
blackdamp, whitedamp, stinkdamp,

men will grab their masks, will spark
you back to life with a puff of oxygen.
A far cry from the pine and laurel copses

of your wild counterparts, from your
progenitors in the gardens of the wealthy:
a citrus shimmer in an orangery,

an airborne fruit. Here, three hundred
metres underground, air is heavier
than lemon blossom, smells

of rock dust, diesel, minerals, sweat;
a whiff of sewage from the shithole.
A man can hear Earth breathing,

can almost catch the slow boom of its pulse.
Coal and slag heaps creak like old bones
breaking free. Yet still you burn,
a yellow stamen trembling in sun,
your wings in your overnight cage
strong and fragile, susceptible as lungs.

Firedamp, blackdamp, whitedamp and stinkdamp are toxic mine gases.

Sharon Black