What is the sound of progress?
Is it the clench and release of sweaty hands
pulling greedily at rubber bands
that bind
old laws
once built strong
on a rock solid clause
now buried
under sub section B
Appendix A
our heritage
lies
in ruins
Is it the violent shrill of the pneumatic drill
boring through brittle battled bone
drawing common blood from precious stone
breaking the backs of men
the spine of the earth
its purpose depleted
except to bleed exposed
abandoned
into collapsed lungs
Is it the burning tears that fall
kneeling beside the childhood bed
watching their curls unfolding
like a sweet story in their precious head
their sweet lips twitching
with a simple melody to sing
They don’t yet know
there’s no rhyme or reason
to this thing
that the howl of the Mr red fox
sounds a warning scream
at night
that the call of the red tailed hawk
the screech of the urban dream
in blight
It is not yet summer
in their noisy boisterous lives
but already
the silent spring
whispers
what they cannot hear
and will never
know
to sing
