Rain taps the landscape.
Its soft touch creates
A tender drift of mud.
In it is nature trapped.
She is her own jailor.
Alas the worms emerge
From the slow-moving slide.
The ensuing birds will purge
Yet through the air they glide.
A cloud engulfs the scene.
The spruce stands sentinel.
Mice begin to chatter between
Themselves; a peaceful hell.
For he who destroys
The scene so sculpted:
Rots among the angels
And demons who await
The devil himself.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 5:39 PM UTC
Rain taps the landscape.
Its soft touch creates
A tender drift of mud.
In it is nature trapped.
She is her own jailor.
Alas the worms emerge
From the slow-moving slide.
The ensuing birds will purge
Yet through the air they glide.
A cloud engulfs the scene.
The spruce stands sentinel.
Mice begin to chatter between
Themselves; a peaceful hell.
For he who destroys
The scene so sculpted:
Rots among the angels
And demons who await
The devil himself.
An appreciation for those who destroy nature's gifts.
23/11/18
Request permission to use this poem