Treeless Eden, oasis of wealth

A treeless Eden The polished wall of glass Audacious storeys high. At ground zero Tin soldiers, With professional smiles Pounce on guests Wheel off their cars Wheel in their bags With clean-jawed friendliness, Keep the poor at bay. Not quite treeless, though, This oasis of wealth. I spot the odd ornamental shrub And even the occasional bird Though only sparrows, it seems, Beloved of the Lord, Survive this sterile affluence.

Hope What a nerve, leaving us stranded Without slasher or compass In this root-littered creek-bed Bush lawyered and nettled by experts.

No cleft in the rock, my dove, No fading sign at the summit; Just a shop-window's curling note to say: Hope's off on vacation.

So we trudge on through the swamp Boots skidding on submarine slats; Thigh-deep in lies and in smut, Flotsam and jetsam en masse.

Pillowed master The sun slides westward. Silvering icy seas Warming cold-blotched hands, Shriving the skin of my soul.

Blue sky belying polar wind, Green grass infertile land, Creased smile the belch of pain: Uncharted worlds.

Or do these steadfast, gurgling waves, Kaleidoscopic magpie calls, Dear friends' departing touch, Betoken rhythms underneath

Which ear nor eye nor mind can trace, Or even guess, but only celebrate? Walk we this thin and silent ice Because a pillowed master sleeps?

Roads No joy to the eye, these slump-backed, Blue-black, tarmacadam coils Which hug the contours of the land Clog up the wetlands, slice through fields, Hack canyons through the stubborn hills.

The Romans loved their rigid roads Hitler was prescient, too, Reichstrassen Providing the Blitzkrieg With clearways East and West. Sieg Heil, Sieg Autobahn!

Our old ones preferred a human scale, Criss-crossed the patient plains, Meandered through flowing hills, Trod pounamu trails or pilgrim paths, Geared movement to the pace of the eye.

Our modern roads expect a free-fire zone, Mow down opossums, hedgehogs, pukeko, Poison the flowers and strangle any bush Which might slow down our onward rush To urgent shops and dreams.

Mere grace notes now the token trees Which line the one way street. We're focused on the A to B; Until that doomsday dawn, When oil wells give Their curt and final wheeze.