Spoil
A heap of spoil, tipped, like coffee grounds
from a cafetière clags ceramic and surrounds
your sink, refuse that clings stubbornly:
no matter how hard you rinse or wash
some detritus sticks it to you; ruins cloth.
Or flies that orbit newly washed hair,
what is it that attracts them there
and how do they know? Such piles of waste
are legion here, despoiling landscapes,
even when you protest to me it is reclaimed,
seeded, grassed, managed.
Here is just your walking pile of damage,
haunting doors, peering into classrooms
with the look of spoil - indulged and entitled.
Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,
so scurry off to those who can,
and instigate another letter writing campaign,
fall, faint, get yourself a new coat of paint,
have a multitude of forests that bind soil
planted by those who sweat; those who toil,
disguising your clinker and slag.
And while it's edifying for excavators
who clawed you from the earth,
exploited anything good, gave birth,
for anybody left it's just a drag.
This heap of spoil, this exploited, ruined mound,
for ever after will be found
polluting the periphery of more fertile grounds
without substance and unblushing:
demanding want, but still wanting nothing.
❤️😰
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