An Elegy for Wind Turbines

The Rotten Shillings

The light so bright a dawn ago shattered
Itself on an oak tree gnarled by the night.
Fragments were hurled over the youngling land,
And scattered as streams and Arthurian lakes,
Danced with the godesses, flashing silver.
“This land is mine” snarled early humankind,
I will put these shillings in my pocket,
And profit from the ancient hopes of dawn.
Only some blackened bones survived his day,
Rotten shillings were found as dusk drew on,
The remains of a cutting dumb machine
That had ruined their civilization.
The rotten apples on a darkening tree
Were at dawn their enlightened destiny.


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