Rolling down to London
Rolling down to london on a train,
the taught and shining buds
of Spring are bursting on the trees.
Wharfedale’s misted in a bluish haze,
but heaps of plastic refuse in the woods
on the drab periphery of Leeds
descend my mood from buoyancy to pain.
Rolling forwards now, the rape fields blaze
and blackthorns bloom with pearls,
resplendent in the boundary hedges
we slice right through, a diesel powered blade
defining who may subjugate this world,
the countryside cake cut in uneven wedges:
a wodge to humanity; wisps to the masses who graze.
Rolling down to London, a cascade
of messages are pinging,
pinging on the private chat group:
assemblies already underway;
emphatic demands; exuberant voices singing;
schemes to redesign the social landscape
as track for Earth’s alternate route is laid.