Because of our coming
the sea turned sour
with the insoluble artificial.
On land the trees fell
on the fallow field
like executed heretics
of the enslaved arboreal
and bovine bondage,
mother’s Milk, the white blood brood
of her killed son, screams
in our viens
We blast the pink flesh
from the six week lambs
because of our coming
agony’s exhalations choke the sky
And we of the ‘Old Country’, long that Dyfed turn sideways to the sun
and be empty wild again
so that we could see
the rolling naked body of the land,
birth and breeth beauty onward-flowing
No more the vampire rapist
that with ravishing strides,
moves toward this suicidal end.
no more killer, flesh devouring man
If only we could,
step
beyond
and past ourselves
bring to life
not farm to death
elusion the illusion
To walk like flowering angels
in the fecund mud
