Grooming The Land

Planted in the neatest rows imaginable

Impeccable as a little girls intricate French plait

But mother nature has no order

No one defined plan; but merely flukes

She never designed a forest to be

Simply created for Fordist functionality

But for its seeds to flow and sway

In the breath that fills her lungs

And grow splotches of happiness

All around her body similar to the hair

We throw our noses in the air about

Oh no not there, its unsightly, messy

Mother would cringe at the sight of Playboy

Girls plucked so religiously

She’d wonder what species they were

Laugh at the phrase landing strip

And wonder what sort of boys

Need a toy aeroplane to be good in bed

We’d gloss over the discussion of bleaching

I can already imagine her look of horror

Tainting nature in its purest form

Like marking out tree by tree

Where everything should exactly be.

Little Ginge x

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