No one else would publish it – I wonder why…
By Philip Pilkington
Open fields and barren grounds and scattered seeds,
Upon which humankind’s memory feeds.
A meeting place for some supposed wants and needs,
Here a history of man finds voice and reads.
Ploughs of chaos tear through soil with bricks and mortar,
Cobblestones and paths devoid of proper order.
And leisured planners backed with money-greed and mirth,
Cannot curb this burst of life from out of earth.
But now they try to structure this fair place with structures,
Solid beams – standard casts
Precise mosaics of shattered glass.
While all the while beneath the surface discord rumbles,
The printed clergy lean on ink preventing stumbles.
The man of means stands atop the highest building,
And the pundit pleads to those who are still willing.
But alas such a state cannot a-fare,
For soon all will be clutching at mere air.
From out of numbers will come death’s frozen stare,
Of which every man must recognise his share.
Pigs led to slaughter, vaults skilfully bled,
Balance sheets and screens turn glossy sticky red.
And sure the public’s tears will have to all be shed,
Alas such will not stop the swine from getting fed.