and the herds come through
trampling the roses
the roses the lilies the myrtle and the lyre
set on fire
these will not do say the modern
what we left behind
when the village was on fire
and our words burned down.
have you looked or have you found
something more beautiful than the sound
of the strumming rains the whisper of the plains
when the grasses stir
when the children crowned themselves all
prairie rosed and cow slipped.
now is language a ghost town
and mined for profit
and the prophets roundly scolded
and the crowds amazed
by circus acts that smell of stale sawdust
where once, there was music.
mary angela douglas 5 july 2017