Small Change by Margaret Simpson

Narrow lane, Old Glasson,
hawthorn leaves glisten,
ladybird lands, tortoiseshell lights
on lesser celandine, colours clasp.
They move on, I too
 
am only passing.  On the bay
a single wader signals
an uprising, the flock turns  
turns again    again,
wing light glissando.
 
This year I vow to learn
the names of common butterflies,
buy milk in glass bottles. 
I cannot banish plastic or
halt the melting,
 
unlike the wader I will not
sing out insurrection.
Nor will the flower’s yellow rays
out sing the sun.
From a darkening window
 
a moth flies for the moon,
constellations assemble. 
Yet
from where I stand
even Orion is only a man.