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


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


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


what they cannot hear

and will never


to sing




Categories: Poetry

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