Progress
The land of youth has gone and I
live in a world of flats and high
ugly buildings to the sky
Where once I played in field of green
no blade of grass or trees are seen
this concrete world with glass between.
Precast and set for years to come,
Casts shadows long and blocks the sun
from those like me who yearn for some
way to escape this concrete world.
To go to sleep and mind unfold
and show me meadows green and gold
a country lane with quaint old thatch
old world charm and peace, to catch
the silver trout, with chance to hatch
its fry in streams yet unpolluted by mans desire.
The quest for for land will never tire
until too late, for money paid for mans perspire
is greater in the concrete land
that those who pay the farmers’ hand
whole land will soon be that of sand.
To make more flats and motorways
for those cars whose fumes we breath on days
in search of peace and country ways.
The fish die in rivers’ slime
created by man in course of time
will reminisce of nature’s prime.
In time my flats will soon become
another generations slum
and then demolished in the sun
with grass merging through the stone
reclaiming land long since its own.
God willing architects have grown
wiser with the passing time,
replan this place with hedge and vine
grass and plants and nature’s pine
in abundance for the birds to preen
their feathers free from mans unclean,
and the land I knew again be seen
