David Wood (07 April 1950 / London)
This Earth's Tiny Plot
Oh’ how rolls that deep blue sea
What tales it could tell you and me
Its constant rolling, its breaking spray
In the moonlight at the end of the day.
Oh’ land what changes you have seen
Your woods and rolling hills of green.
Land under the plough being tilled
By farmers who, strong willed
Rotate their crops in all seasons
Their year dictated by all reason.
Fields harvested now industrialised
That farming now is marginalised.
Settlements aeons now passed
Middle age villages now grassed.
They melted in the mist of time
Lives lived through ages rhyme.
Of the future what tales will tell
And what ideas will they sell
To future generations to blot
Upon this earths tiny plot.
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