The silver bough,
The earthworn plough
That lounges idly by the wayside of this green and once pleasant land
Shivers, in the sunshine, neglected
The rotting fruit
Lie fine art brut.
A landscape fit for Covent garden colouring pave
Down come the hordes,
on crops they gorge
And bloated fly away to different climes.
Whilst leaving golden yesterdays on times forgotten forge.
And so with lame lament
And Lionheart bent,
The land of Avalon lies broken,
Bleeding on the parched earths path.
A sacrifice upon the altar of human greed.
©L. M. Roberts 2020
I wrote this poem whilst basking in Lockdown heaven in the summer of discontent, and envisaging our next summer, our crops and our lack of workers.
Cheerful soul aren’t I😟