Skies Turned Dead from Purest Blue

To soar like a bird would be a grand thing, With flights through cobalt depths and azure seas; Nothing against you but air on your

No longer all at sea

The seabirds help our coasts to live and breathe, Perched delicately across the food web. But watching as they fly and gently wreathe, Their numbers

The Blessed Birds Will Sing No More

The Blessed Island was so poorly named, As from that day in March the land was cursed. Did Nature feel that mankind should be blamed?