Lion Gorge, Thurrock Poem by Roy Ballard

Our mother earth has ancient wounds and fresh
where pelting asteroids have scarred her face
or men have sucked at her sustaining flesh
deriving substance from her fond embrace.
Here they have dug out pallid pits for chalk
where once were places set with ornaments,
with velvet lawns for silence or soft talk
amidst delightful slopes and herbal scents.
Among the naked poppies, one by one
I planted acorns; that was long ago.
From water to the pit's edge green was spun
by root and tendril where the oak trees grow.
Around the pits, upon the level ground,
a new suburbia spreads all around.