Rolling down to london on a train,

the taught and shining buds

of Spring are bursting on the trees.

Wharfedale’s misted in a bluish haze,

but heaps of plastic refuse in the woods

on the drab periphery of Leeds

descend my mood from buoyancy to pain.

 

Rolling forwards now, the rape fields blaze

and blackthorns bloom with pearls,

resplendent in the boundary hedges

we slice right through, a diesel powered blade

defining who may subjugate this world,

the countryside cake cut in uneven wedges:

a wodge to humanity; wisps to the masses who graze.

 

Rolling down to London, a cascade

of messages are pinging,

pinging on the private chat group:

assemblies already underway;

emphatic demands; exuberant voices singing;

schemes to redesign the social landscape 

as track for Earth’s alternate route is laid.