Doomed

Rocks cleave out to the summer sun,
Basking their cold hides
half- unsheathing the hard outcrops.

All over the young Earth,
soft blades of grass flicker and tremble
By the warbling brook
Running wayward
Into the clump of trees crowding her path.
Just beyond
The field is fragrant
Hoes intimate  with the sappy weeds
So near their hearts..

The young season is forgetful of the claws
Digging into the elements
The Farmhand of fourteen summers smiles like
The  morning in his sodden clothes
Pain seeps into my veins
So trusting, only to squirm in the grip of the twisted reality
Like the shimmering brook:
The cunning civilisation will deny him his carriage
To the glorious seas.