Does clay wish to be a brick,
Or wood to become a fence?
Were diamonds born
To be worn by the rich,
Who dug for gold –
And sold their soul?
Oh be still, be still!
Look up at the hills,
And the swallows chasing the sun.
When up in the skies,
The buzzard cries,
Must you go fetch your gun?
Nets dredge the sea
Of everything free,
While petrels have plastic guts;
And rocks become roads
And cars carry loads
Of blind eyes sunk in their ruts.
Oh look down, look down
At the flowers that crown
The meadows bordered by tracks;
And brush through the leaves
Of venerable trees
That know not the sound of the axe.
When woods are replaced,
And the land is laced
With towns and shops and all;
Then gone is the green,
No more to be seen
The gentle waterfall.
Oh look wide, look wide
Where the blue tits hide,
And follow the vixen’s howl.
Tread soft through the trees
When you feel the breeze
Of the silent, gliding owl.
What price the soul when profit’s the goal
And bankers can’t miss a trick?
With tears like rain I ask again
Does clay wish to be a brick?
Or wood to become a fence?
And there was silence.
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