A poem written some time ago when man in his wisdom began to build a trading estate along the path next to our beautiful river bank. It used to look just like one of Monet's early paintings.
How can we . . .
How can we do it?
How can we desecrate one of Monet's early works?
The fisherman no longer watches placidly as his line flows gently.
Never catching, just biding his time.
We have ruined . . .
We have ruined it all.
The painting is scarred beyond all hope of recovery.
The trees have disappeared, their leaves fallen for the very last time
All shade offered, gone to man's greed.
But we have . . .
But we have new jobs.
The metal frames turned to trading estates.
Silence has become noise, as vehicles move where grass once was.
Although we need, so much we've lost.
Our children will not . . .
Our children will not see the beauty.
Iron mouths have gobbled up their heritage.
Will this, some time soon, take on a beauty all of its own?
From Monet to Lowry in our lifetime.