The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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Below is the third - and, so far as I can tell at present, the final - draft of a poem for which I have been quite unable to find a title to...
Wednesday, 20 March 2013
The wind it is a chainsaw
in a forest made by man,
it rips the buildings limb from limb
and piles them storeys high.
The mighty oaks and redwoods fall
like old teeth pulled
and full of puss
and rotten with the pain.
Each solitary figure stands,
as cherished notions blown like leaves
are ripped from what would nourish them
and thrown into the night.
There's terror in the chain saw's screech
it echoes every creature's call.
The forest has been pulled awake
as Nature told it sleep!
With chain saws all around us
there's no way from the wood,
the ancient moors, though places loved,
are lost now to our feet.
The loggers who have stricken us
are forces we unleashed:
we stirred the pot and boiled away
what might have been the balm.
The sounds that now besiege us
are the rattles in the throats
of all who once believed us
when we said the Earth would live.