CLEAVE TO THE LAND
The currents, cascades
of our rivers,
the sheer force and fall
of our waters
that are drink, are fluid,
for bank and dockside flowers,
while the sun spies
through the trees and towers.
Green sheep gaze
on greener hills,
innocent of industry,
of man's mills,
where blind as bats
and bloody wills
is green, green nature
in her frocks and frills.
Green as pound notes
that have gone,
green as the green-grocer
to the butcher's song
of sweet salad days
and the heart he had won
now tied to the strings
of a new lover's apron.
Green as the children
in the chimeless fun-park
yet to be charmed
by the linnet and the lark.
Green to the lights
after dark
but not the star's
inspiring spark.
Blind as the drunkards
hell-bent on brawling,
innocent as the infants
to the deviant's calling,
while prone as prostitutes
to men's mauling,
forced is the virgin
into her falling.
Forced is the virgin
into her falling
by old professions
and a new blood's roaring
just like lions at lambs,
proud and pawing,
rude as the rose
to real men's knowing.
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