Saturday, 17 October 2015

Social Commentary Poem

Encapsulated in my memory,
for no stable imagery exists,
homes a lush, roadside grove.

Mother Nature never called
for rows of trees.
She doesn't bother
with order.

In it bears a modern house,
worn dirt paths find their way
to unsightly gas guzzlers
sitting on the dried gas.

No, it is not true nature.
No, it isn't located
in the middle
of nowhere.

But the rows are uneven,
the spacing wrong,
frequent gaps
and rotten apples.

The house is built from
its surrounding neighbours,

But large, ungainly pines
shield their friend
and block the enemy.

Years pass.
The orchard flourishes.
Families drop by,
grabbing apples
that are too small,
eating apples
that don't

Years pass.
A parking lot is built
so more families can visit.
Gravel is put in to lead
to the house for
easy access.

The pines

Years pass.
'The Orchard
Coming Soon'
The sign looms
as if to say
there wasn't
an orchard

Months pass.
The trees are
The earth is
The house is
not a house.

Weeks pass.
The dirt is gone,
replaced with gravel.
The trees have returned,
transfigured into lavish huts.

The memories remain,
as does the sign.
The only real orchard
is the one
in my mind.

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