We search the hedgerows looking for a secret
We think is lost, a rumour of a knowledge
We forgot. Even while the farmer checks the Hawthorn,
Predicting clement weather when everything grows
And the new hatched scalding calls the first buds to flower.
Would that we should look up from the ditch and see
The seasons turn regardless. Scared of shadows,
All shadow is made sacred. Better the mystery,
We have no use for truth because the lie is so beautiful.
Lady nature accessorised. The soft wilderness urbanised
And cultivated. For though the seasons pass without agenda,
We are chained to patterns with which to sow our narrative
In the compost of history, Bastardised by mystics.
A distilled wisdom made feeble, watered down
And sold as a panacea to cure all of the cold
Honeydew dawn. Our new age born furious in the Still ponds
Of our cosmopolitan gullibility.
Wednesday, February 24, 2021