dreading the past – missing a future –
I can't reckon. I'm not right.
though I'll not purple over the verdure,
nor demonise serious men who'd grey it.
– though he will upend, undo
with his bare two hundred hands
(money makes Atlas of anyone).
a mistake to call this nature,
the grove's as architectural
as highrise municipal redwoods.
our pasture's no more natural than a God's acre sowed.
this place, brick-green & pillared in Ionian birch,
is a veneer merely of my animal haunt.
Isn't much nature to go around,
only these rare soft streets
we begrudge the intrusion of.
Natural Aberdeen resents the arboreal eyesore, will
correct the undersight
blip in granite graph.
Just, mere, only. Eyes do not quite die of green deficiency.
Repurposing our development
they entomb, at last, illusion,
unhook my love for semblance from
its pretences. (Civil botany.)
a queer serenity for now, the
usual dull immortality of large trees framed
fittingly by demolition.
no such thing as nature - for all
I live in granite beaverdam.
Sic transit flora.