Hillsong

They’ve given the business

to my mother’s favorite hill,

just off Little Plum Run Road.

 

Once:

a cascading glade,

the kind you’d see

in those old movies

couples, bounding

in slow motion

abounding

in endless love.

 

Banners agitate

waving the crests of

Science

and

Progress

white knights

mounting

their noble steeds

in the name of domestic independence.

These star-crossed

lovers of yore

(or at the very least a stanza before)

lost, the flames from the rigs

blotting out the night,

targets of this endless

economic war.

 

Taken up arms

taking aim

the birds and the bees

hooded robins

unsure anymore

of when to sing in spring

our faltering flags

the white fields of surrender

choked

with the soot

of a cleaner,

more “natural” gas.

 

Enjoying the view

from your ivory towers

thousands of feet above

while our view nine hundred feet below

as they dug

our fracking graves

one well at a time

beneath the surface,

much too far for our protests

to be heard

let alone do any harm.

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