Phil Wood

Paying for our Heritage

That African mask, painted with ochre,
threaded with hair sucking on bones,
its lively chatter of jungle tones
ghost the gilded themes of this tour.

The shadows ink across splendid
portraits. Those Gainsborough ladies
in genteel gardens - water lilies
and roses - lives slavishly scented.

This crowded cafe bubbles with chit-chat,
a broth of varied voices. We've paid
for tea and homemade cake. I check
my 'Diary of a Country Parson'.

What sugared past do we consume
and trust in our comfortable rooms?

Elysium

I hear the bellow from the mother tree,
the farmer's field a grid for deadly seed,
those profits keep our children hunger free.
I hear the bellow from the mother tree,
the profit man harvesting city greed,
this wonder feeds our minds with mutant breed.
I hear the bellow from the mother tree,
the farmer's field a grid for deadly seed.

Phil Wood © 2018