The lane (poem)

There used to be a lane I walked when I was very small

The dewy flowers gleamed like gems, the trees grew proud and tall

The horses grazed on meadow grass, too tired and old to race

And dined on quartered apples,  breathing softly in your face

There was a silver brook that sang and down whose banks I’d climb

With matchbox boats and leaves to float,  twas how I passed my time

There was a den beneath the trees equipped with books and sweets

The great old oak would keep me warm and sheltered at its feet

There were jungles full of tigers,  scorpions and snakes

Pits to trap the natives in and giant hills and lakes

There were balmy walks in summer when fragrance filled the air

From fields of golden blossoms so precious and so rare

And oh!  The birds that did abound and filled my soul with joyous sound

Their liquid trills and courting cries their swooping gliding in the skies

It was enough to make me sigh and now they’re gone tears fill my eyes.

But that was then and this is now,  for progress is a hungry beast

On pastures green and trees it feasts,  and birds and nature matter least

The horses field it is long gone replaced by concrete driveways long

The little brook is fenced away and deemed unsafe for children’s play

The dancing rippling fields of flowers have been transformed to concrete towers

And last the lone surviving oak with rotted heart and sweeping crash

Came dying down upon the path and left an open bleeding gash

There seems no end to human greed we consume nature with great speed

And if this poems lost its form it’s just because my heart is torn.

But still I walk that lane at night when tucked in bed,  my eyes closed tight

And if I try can still recall,  the wondrous magic of it all.

Marie

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About Marie

An eccentric & quirky artist and writer who fills her time between fantasy roleplaying sessions with painting, writing and playing her guitar (rather badly). Usually to be found with paint-stained fingers surrounded by books and tubes of acrylic paint.
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