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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 17:28:23 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 160700
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The Willing Hand Of Man
[time] => 2010-06-20 12:54:21
[hometext] => inspired by lovincritters thoughts on the Gulf of Mexico disaster, this is about man's obsession with progress-whatever the cost.
[bodytext] => Like a thug intent on maximum damage The digger entered the field under the cover of darkness. Now exposed by the high sun of blossoming summer, It is what it is, a large foreboding lump of machinery immobile at the field's edge. From a gap in the hedge a man enters the still Sunday silence. The chainsaw he dangles is like a grotesques extension of his arm. He strides towards the copse of birch, ash and elm, his intentions wicked, his conscience clear. The first pull of the cord is a devastating sound, The flash of the saw scatters the birds as they look down on their God given kingdom, A kingdom about to be taken by the willing hand of man. With each stride he takes another tree falls, its limbs hanging for a micro second In the sultry silence of the day. Although these trees are meeting their fate with great dignity, Their inner screams will haunt this place forever. Now the digger makes its way across the field, wheezing like an asthmatic bulldog, Stops at the mass of Hawthorne hedge, then raising its vast mechanical arm, Demands the full attention of sun, sky, fallen trees. It lands in the dark soil with a sickening thud, its huge jaws full of dark rotten teeth Penetrate the deep earth and with each severed root a dream is lost, Each dream a hundred years in the making, with each twig and thorn ripped from the hedge, An ancient promise is broken, a promise made by sweet mother earth. And now an uneasy stillness settles with the dusk. The trees are fallen, The hedgerow, anointed with the tears of an age long forgotten, is flattened. The ghosts are already gathering and with them another piece of the puzzle is slotted into place. The puzzle of progress is an ongoing obscenity, an obscenity softly caressed By the willing hand of man. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 108 [topic] => 27 [informant] => cashfan1 [notes] => Corrected spelling as requested ~ Moderator_18 June 21, 2010 [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 0 [associated] => [topicname] => NaturePoetry )
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