In my small morning-walk
Part of the world
Water puddled in
The harsh tracks of
Invaders long gone
Reaches for the winter sun
With lips of ice.
Overnight the frost has
Made stiff cells of the earth,
Powdered the speartips
Of grass and salted
The shoulders of broad leaves
Into a single, silently screaming scrum.
In another, far-removed
Ignorant-of-nature place
Politicians squabble, chatter and
Greed over territory like
Opera villain magpies.
Can they be so unaware of the impact?
Why don’t they listen
To the falling?
Heed the fallen?
Is it too late?
Can we still rebuild the Dove Gate?
Use the Get out of Hell Card?
18/11/2012
