I passed through
the wracking bowels
of a black city,
shrouded in scrap metal,
remnants of man’s redundancy.
A dead city
forever Man displaced
in conditioned congestion
can only plot
his own destruction.
Yet Man’s industry
can be humanising,
miles of canal
threading through
this brittle babel
looked strangely soothing
Man copying Nature’s
aesthetic ingenuity,
still-green waters
supporting barges,
rustic retrospection.
In Brislington I saw
from a dormer window
green fields iridescent
in a kind sun.
Olive green of cypress hedges
and grand trees, leaves
a tapestry of greenest lace,
black green of
horizoned woods,
and I could only see the earth
only a sea of green.
(Poem number not known, © Estate Pat Mohen 2013- Published in Omega 1981 Special Edition p18, composed 1979 in England)
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