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 ramblings and things


This is not
The countryside of my youth.
Green meadows under the brick
And concrete of identikit estates.
Hedgerows, once wind breaks,
Ripped out for larger economic fields
Of brown crumbling earth, overworked
Over fertilised,  with few worms,
Pesticides reducing insect life
That fed the birds so that now
Fewer birds sing over Country meadows.
All in the name of profit and cheap food.
But, when a thing is cheap something,
Or somebody, somewhere pays,
Like the dying bees,
Caged chickens,
Little birdsong.
Or the sweatshop
Of workers of Bangladesh.
Sadly,  no, this is no longer
The countryside of my youth.

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