Wednesday, October 8, 2014

The Wreckage We Survey

The Wreckage We Survey

Warm and wet the living world began,
   A tea party set, just so, for the new folk,
A garden filled with creatures bold and shy,
   Begging for attention from the gardeners.

Inexplicable choices made in the shade,
   Naked, running out among the brambles,
Farmers, now, not gardeners - their first land rush;
   Plowing all along the way, the once unwounded Earth.
The sun warms, the moon lights the night to comfort,
   While darkness growing darker, the seasons rise and fall.
And the wreckage we survey is all our own making.
   Not His. The smoking ruin, demands I pay attention.

© 2014 by Tom King

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