Man Made Eclipse Poem by Neil Crawford

Colours almost without number,
clay grey, leaf green, rich raw umber,
yield beneath my hurried feet
as I reach the verge from off the street.


I pace a grove of ancient trees,
ignorant of their destiny,
the city centre's closing in,
bringing its aesthetic sin.


New multi-stories give us shade
not the cooling, song filled glade,
Without a voice to question'why? ',
these trees will be soon to die.


They will feel the hand of man,
they simply do not fit the plan,
when distant strangers set the view
that's 'good enough' for me and you.