The Field

Eyes rush and the skin buzzes

And the ears are pricked

To the acoustic accusations

That are the city’s language.

 

You’ve got a promising grin—

You’re taking me to the field

You mentioned on the train;

The old camping ground

Your monthly dose of Nature.

My pool of green

In your concrete world.

 

We round the corner

 

‘Did we take a wrong turn?’

I ask

‘A false trail, perhaps?’

I ask

‘Another of your ill-punched jokes?’

No. We’re here.

 

Here.

Dry skeletal twists and knots

Of grass, branch and stem.

A million worm corpses

In an over-cast graveyard—

Memories of a battle

Where Death won again.

 

The trees have

Stopped

Like dead spiders’ legs

Clicked and clacked rigid

In a riga mortis tangle.

No birds

Not even a crow’s convenience.

 

The colour green

Is the symbol of human illness

But to Nature it’s life.

This isn’t anger

it’s more than that.

 

The look in the sky

Is the same as our faces.

 

You tell me this had been a paradise

The last time you looked.

The glints of cans

The fish-eyed bottles

 

The metropolitan contract is sealed.