He sits disillusioned and despondent.
Imprisoned and exiled
to a windy, exhaust-fumed smelly
traffic island on the arse-end
of this post-industrial town.
Stagnating upon yellow grasses,
scrub bushes and granite chippings.
The acid rain and oil slick puddles
help to strangle away all hope.
They’re building another flyover bridge
yonder where the duck ponds
and the rabbit burrows used to be.
The Ancient Hawthorn Hedgerows,
ripe with blackberry, sloe and acorn.
Alive with finches, yellowhammers,
thrushes, tits, little owls and the like.
Are lost forever to out of town
carparks, garages and supermarkets.
Miles and miles of cold, grey concrete
smothering Mother Nature’s
once healthy green and beautiful face.
Source