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