Shadow The filthy sands along the shore, Flee quickly from the ocean’s roar; Above, three seagulls seek and soar, Fearsome that they’ve lost the war. Upon one hill dwell but two trees, Hosting flowers, birds and bees. Nurtured by a gentle breeze, Though each one odd in what he sees. The first is old, and sad, and grey, He’ll sit and watch each passing day. His tears run deep along the bay; He knows not how they’ve lost their way. His son is young, and always glad, He views the side that’s seldom sad. And though the sea is raging mad, This view is blocked in lieu of dad. And so the oil drips and leaks, Polluted air; a deadly reek. Darkened wings and dirtied beaks, Have made these friends distraught and weak. Though suns still shine behind the hill, A young tree knows not of the spill. His town is peaceful, small and still; Blind like bats as to their will.
bruschetta,this is just plain beautiful,sad and so true,I like it and look forward to reading more.It reminds of the 1st oil spill,I helped clean up after in the early 70's in Pacifica,20 miles south of San Francisco,rolling the oil off the sand,with anything we could find and picking up the living critters to take over to the old golf course for cleaning with Q-tips and mineral oil,it's the 1st time I remember everyone from surfer's to senior's to closed classes at the grade school coming together to help,thank you for bringing back the memory of what it felt like when a bird was able to take flight again,there wasn't very many that survived. Shadow The filthy sands along the shore, Flee quickly from the ocean’s roar; Above, three seagulls seek and soar, Fearsome that they’ve lost the war. Upon one hill dwell but two trees, Hosting flowers, birds and bees. Nurtured by a gentle breeze, Though each one odd in what he sees The first is old, and sad, and grey, He’ll sit and watch each passing day. His tears run deep along the bay; He knows not how they’ve lost their way. His son is young, and always glad, He views the side that’s seldom sad. And though the sea is raging mad, This view is blocked in lieu of dad. And so the oil drips and leaks, Polluted air; a deadly reek. Darkened wings and dirtied beaks, Have made these friends distraught and weak. Though suns still shine behind the hill, A young tree knows not of the spill. His town is peaceful, small and still; Blind like bats as to their will. ©bruschetta
