Absentia

No more naming the flood's last scattering
Nor seawood bleached to the bone by weather;
No name for spiralled veins in living wood,
None for cracked ice under new ice forming.

No more words will separate
Bud from flower or the fruit that follows;
None will call up a harvest or name its days;
None will dry a summer after rain in spring.

Over our heads the screech owl and the windhover
Call in vain. No-one knows one from the other.

At our feet creeping chamomile, pineapple mayweed,
Are lost, being green among green.

In our hearts our blood, a red sludge,
Might as well run through badgers' veins
Or fill the spleens of mice.

Lines under sky
Now so old the edges are indistinct
As if rain hatched the boundaries of earth
To shroud our horizons or empty them.

What made us wise was wasted
When we let the sounds of the world grow weary.

Silent.

When, forsaking the world that made itself and us,
We turned our gaze upon the things we alone have built.

Nothing more inscribed
Of time past or passing.
No knowledge, no history,
No tale to tell,
Not even a scrap of song.

 © BH 2015

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More on the theme of nature denatured by media. And here I am blogging my heart away into the ether. Outside the birds are dropping off their trees but in my my mind, and yours, the seasons turn in video.