High upon the dry-land, oxen.
Kinsfolk play as bards under the rooves of amusement arcades.
HALT! Kingsmen guarding their play fort.
We can't go beyond this point, the oxygen is in short supply and we have no nets.
Chasing bubble-flies like grazed kneed children, our laughs erupted from our empty mouths.
Our happiness was immeasurable.
'This will never change'
Our words harmonised in a chorus of agreeance.
On the horizon we saw black clouds.
Rain, we told ourselves, fearing the worst, one more sleep before...
The morning came and our beds were still safe, parental units hugged and comforted not.
It came on the 4th day.
The chugg and smog of our new dictator, en-masse, pushing us from our havens into less green areas.
Using our arms to attack the tractors, they deafened with their din.
We showed how we use vowels as trowels.
Consenants to the power of Continents.
We unearthed land-worms larger than arms as if to free them.
Their place is there and there, not here.
A savage youth tosses his in a discarding manner...
Our hearts sink as it lands underfoot.
So much for our philosophy.
Crippled under the weight of our sins, we allowed the tractors into our homes.
From that day our new bond was rarely strained.
Our peaceful veto was maintained.
This reminded me a little of some stuff by Seamus Heaney - perhaps its all the agricultural imagery steeped in nostalgia. Good stuff!
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