Backs To Nature
Taking Coleridge at his word,
I hied me to a rural scene
To leave behind the madding herd
For where Titania reigns the queen.
Ah! ‘Tis hard to wax romantic,
Though bees hum and boughs do sway,
To close the mind to all the frantic
Things that jostle us each day.
No more the gentle rustic peasant,
No more the green wood wild and free.
This national park, however pleasant,
Some how’s a substitute to me.
What the elm, the oak, the fir,
O what yon flowery slopes to win,
And all that Nature’s beauties stir
Is marred by that blooming Cola tin.
These eyes absorbing and receptive
Scan the prospect domed with blue,
Yet that unsightly thing rejected
Does little to enhance the view.
Would Wordsworth's cloud lift my powers,
lest these powers should sag.
In lieu of glorious yellow flowers
I spy but a wandering plastic bag.
And though you find your Eldorado
By some far-off golden shore,
Whiles yet you munch your avocado
Above the chartered Jumbos roar.
Back then to the grind of duty,
Congested roads, polluted air.
From such as these fashion beauty.
New Millennial Baudelaire.
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