Our hearts were the open wings of birds.

Outstretched and clinging to our firs.

Our homes were beaten tracks
of leaf and rock.

Not sallowed grey tarmac-
Adam’s Eve-il plot.

A shaman was soothing backs
with a rootly block.

From a hallowed far back
plant among the crop.

Children sang & hummed
with their small & cheeping neighbours.

Whilst druid’s bodhrán drum
brought on bovine bleating labours.

Water complimented skies
as nightly they fell together.

Polar undocumented ice
plumed white a dovely feather.

Community grew closer
during harvest, through the winter.

Venerated ghosts were
offered ardour’s effigy for tinder.

Landscapes teemed with riverstreams
where fisher’s cast their net & line.

Keen proteges would from under treen
hope to scope the catch after their climbs.

Yet, that’s all but gone now, & I lament
for the time before time forgot.

Those homes, rivers, trees are instead cement.
Byway of climbing to the top.

And, from the top what did we vision
for the far-reaching hills and plains?

Concrete blocks forged by derision.
For flighty creatures fall from grace.

Where fowl once flew from bush to cape
memories stir underground.

That yearn to feel our firs & sakes
soothe lands, peoples. 

Lost, unfound.

We search all over concrete forests.

For our green missing firs.

The cost to our hearts? 

Their open wings clipt infront of dying birds.


© poormansdreams