TOIL OF THE HANDS

Discard the remains left brown
I've spent my currency
Buying what's for sale
That can't be bought.

To build on this plot-
Climate and terrain
won't allow a raw patch
Of paradise to live here.

Weariness hushes the grasses
And the rock path ends
Among the weeds who won the battle
Who won the war.

Pine trees are guards
Who let it happen,
Forget the names of the plants
It's easier that way.

But the earth hasn't forgotten
It holds my footprint
on the craggy lines
The nettles have taken it.

Only my shadow remains
Blurred into dust
Kissed by the wind
Into a lonely place.

~Dave~
15 Nov 04
 

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