A Tear for Haughmond Hill

Haughmond Hill is in England. It was a quarry. Its rock used for hunting lodges and the Abby of monks and grave stones.


I was a work of wonder
created for man's mirth,
not just a thoughtless belch
from an angry gaseous earth.
I remember my moss-green cape
spreading far over land in my care.
A pavilion for life unseen
and home of the Kestrels and Hare.

The dragon of flies hovered high
on up-drafts of a springtime breeze.
And horsetails softened their spikes
near a river flowing with ease.
The gold-crest bird with long yellow stripe
hid not beneath a shrub.
But darted in air
and danced on my cape
his roll melodic and clear.

In the sun an emerald slide was I
each drop of rain a child
gliding with glee to the valley low,
with sunshine and warmth in tow.

With ravines, mistaken for smiles,
I glare at horizon's end.
I saw them come with their earth-rippers.
The ones they call "The Men."
They splayed me out like the hunter's game,
like surgeons with unversed hands,
flaying me lengthwise and breath,
greedy butchers of land.

They drilled deep into my core
the lavishing land-whores.
They punched my skin with holes
then chipped away at my soul.
For leaving me rocky and shallow
vandalized graves appeared,
most built with my soul,
slowly disappeared.

Now a blemish upon the earth,
my soul naked to all,
even with threads from a penitent heart
my scars are seen by all.