THE GIRL WHO LIKED
Polly’s Pater perspired profusely,
And Mother her hands did wring,
Oh! Her parents despaired as their daughter declared
Her love for all natural things.
“Not for me, rampant industry!”
Polly trilled as she gazed distant hills.
“Not chimneys high, spilling forth to the sky
Foul outcome from the pounding of mills”.
“Those grunting heads, shining metallic spit
Shafts and cams in lifeless repetition,
Grinding motions relentless, boring into the bit”,
She expressed, striding into her mission.
“Putrid spills and stains! Ah, they do repel
When aggressively spewed from containers
By superior arrogant dominating vessels!”
Sang the wild, impassioned young campaigner.
“But”, she sighed “to run wild in meadows,
And lavish in lush valleys moist
With dew and trickling streams anew
With furtile life!” She voiced.
“So many cracks, crevices to explore
Slippy slopes, buried caverns and caves.
Such excitement aroused by prescient promise!
It is these expeditions I crave”.
“Wild-topped hillocks, where grasses flow pink and wild,
Naked nature, hot-flushed with sensation!
Sacrificing myself to her florid desire!”
Words sparked cold parental consternation.
So, with chains and bars, tight clamps and current
They sought to curtail her abandon
And drive her nature into recesses dark
To conform their young child to convention.
But...
It was far too late
Path led to the gate
Where her form atomised
Into bright butterflies
And guardians fears
Melted into tears
As offspring will be
Never as one can see.
© 2012 Lance Eggleton
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