Some forgotten land with filth
fouling what could be fair,
with crushed plastic coffee cups
keeping confused foxes awake,
and tissue hanging from the tree
like a flag of invasive dominance
as man claims the land as his,
but the life still shines through the dirt
whilst spring bulbs are growing in confidence
in an explosion of bright fashions
which the barbed fences can barely contain
and the skies are so much clearer
than the shingles of glass sweeping the floor.
Even here, in this forgotten land
I can't help but feel the fair will prevail.
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