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WHAT HAVE WE DONE?

I escaped the raging party
headed for the local coppice
Bluebell Wood, so large and alone before
now I stand in the densest foliage
Now I stand in the heart of
a dying wood

I see a horizon of rooftops
a horizon so near
Poor wood, I had loved it so
memories that were good
Flown on the wind, the wind of the eye
the eye of my head.

And from my head I cry
that this wood is part of past
So now I have to try to be lost
give me peace, a place
Where I may stay alone, reflect
allow my head to catch up
With this life that races by.

I shut my eyes, my ears burn
but there is birdsong
Birdsong so loud; “Hey little birds, why?”
maybe as I listen, they say
That it is so difficult to be heard these days.

So much noise heard from the wood
the birds, even the tress have to make themselves heard
Maybe we have done just the same
Dogshit everywhere, and I wonder
Surely they would never live
in such confined spaces, within nature’s cast

Each packs boundaries would stretch for miles
so would ours
Oh! what have we done?

(Wow, was I an environmentalist? Or observer? Did we have the jargon of brown, grey and greenfield sites then?)