by Gregory Walton-Green
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| (source: mikeashworth.co.uk) |
Musings on a Molehill
I saw a molehill in a field
Break through the lines of living green,
With regimented rows of wheat
Usurped by poppies, which lowered their yield.
I gazed awhile upon this scene;
This thought appeared within my head:
Those moles who ravage ordered crops
Free the Earth for blooms of red.
My mind fell down a rabbit-hole
To investigate the mole.
Released from how the surface seems
I burrowed into Forms of dreams.
I was a sewer-rat in France
Amidst the dank of hell
In haste I scurried
Eternally worried
Scared lest the walls fell.
Drudging through the dirty Styx,
I came to a drain beneath the granary;
And there in a hollow,
Where none should have followed,
I placed my base offspring.
I was gold music in a cage,
A mole dragged me deep underground,
He quarried hope to earn his wage
When suffocating greed was found.
I stopped myself, self-sacrifice
My voice in exchange for his life:
For silence hides the darkest crimes
When underneath the soil living,
Grieve if there are no birds singing.
But I've deceived you.
I spoke as if Ideals were reality;
Unashamedly anthropomorphising,
My musings made a mountain.
No poppy can bloom near the work of farming men.
Poppies are delegated to the slate thin soil of forgotten wastelands,
While moles luxuriate in the riches of the earth.
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