Cybele,
our Sundays will never be the same,
our picnics in
the forest spoiled by acid rain;
This summer we
stand on decaying autumn leaves,
the skeletal
branches wracked with man's disease.
Still, the
smoke stacks spew out their foul breath,
too late now
to stem the creeping death;
the sickening
scourge men failed to stay,
blind to their
fate, living only for the day.
Cybele, I
cannot save you, or nurse you back to health,
I'll chop you
down, and from you, make a coffin for myself.
Listen to the
wind in the forest, sighing:
Farewell
Cybele, the trees are dying.
"The Waysider"
No 194 dec1985