How we abuse the globus we dwell on,
ripping up terra with such revelry.
So we may lay pavimentum strong,
Ignoring ossa that we cannot see.
Our sun-dried clay rises towards the sky.
Chimneys cough fumus; a deathly omen.
The V’s we painted as children, farebye.
The Power should have made us below them.
Unless we amend for our wanton ways,
How can we stroll contented down our lanes,
Waiting passively for our numbered days?
Knocking on wood – heed not these homesick pains.
Crofton no longer means town with small fields.
Outside my window, the gated tree yields.