Patterns in the Sand
No more the rustling in the reeds
where finches shout out from the trees
as sunlight gleams on flashing wings
and yellow feathers drift like leaves;
Where grass nests swing in hammocked cadence
teasing muddied streams below;
and dipping branches brush the froth-foamed
earth-browned water’s bubbling flow.
No more the arches overhead
where branches meet in tunnelled shade
and close by on the shaded banks
the long-legged crane and water-fowl
print cross-hatched patterns on the sand.
For Nature was improved upon;
and altered till the wilds were gone
No mountain springs or inland streams;
but heated pools and cultured zoos;
with neatly labelled bars and cells;
all individual private hells.
Yes, Nature’s been neutered, cramped and computed
Her voice will be muted for decades to come.
She’s been catalogued and classified,
corrected and defined
homogenised and purified,
amended and refined.
Gusts of progress everywhere
Have blasted through the land
And finches’ nests have blown away
Like patterns in the sand.
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