April 30, 2012

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              Elegy 

   

                These island woods have given up the ghost

                The only growth a mindless alder-shoot

                As sickness from the south and west

                Floats in on warmer rain and snow enroute

                To northern lakes

   

                The last great conifers are choked

                By resurrected remnants of ancestral crush

                Slurried into enormous furnaces and then up-smoked

                Far from mid-western streets forloned by soot and slush

                To fall as poisoned flakes

   

                The matchless brilliance of long-past dawns

                Once fresh with jewel-drops of uncorrupted fog

                Is but a heart-rent memory now shorn

                Of all its loveliness - a septic bog

                A pestilence thought dead awakes

   

                These mournful woods they creak and moan

                Their cankerous malignancy now obvious for all to see

                But no one comes and they are left alone

                Exhausted in their ennui

                Elegiac of man's mistakes

   

   

   

  • 5:46 pm
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