Nature paints with an infinite brush,
choosing her colours from creation’s blush,
layering textures of grass and bark,
filtering levels of light and dark …
worshiping the sun and the moon.
Dawn’s aria plays on the wings of a breeze
with percussion derived from a cloudy sneeze,
and the strings are the winds blowing in from the coast
and the vocals are cockerels, come out to boast …
the fundament playing a tune.
When turning a page on the story
of history’s debatable glory,
remember the scribe’s ignominy,
the inevitable, hateful hegemony.
Existence dictated by loons.
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