Rewilding Fukushima
After the accident the forest returned, blanketing forsaken machinery in a gentle, unfamiliar embrace. Stacks of contaminated televisions lie in heaps, repurposed as shelters for
"this is sixth form poetry, not Keats or Yeats"
After the accident the forest returned, blanketing forsaken machinery in a gentle, unfamiliar embrace. Stacks of contaminated televisions lie in heaps, repurposed as shelters for
You glide across your silky precipice, Enticed by spasms at the edges of your kingdom; You see nothing, Just a loose thread caught in the
Sailing swiftly along the salted seashore, Your whiteish throat flanks brown streaks That accentuate comedic orange brows. Amongst saline marshes and sunken reeds You build
Your recent absences have become More pronounced; The late spring evenings are no longer Alive with the industry of your approach, And the flowers in
On the night that Titus fell His night nest was not empty, Not empty, but silent. His body still warm, Still warm to receive The
Once they roamed across the plains like gods, Their gigantic frames drowning out the sun As they paraded in quiet contemplation. Jealous of their size
As distant rumblings pierce pastoral air, Each roaming frog recoils without a bound; Mechanical vibrations beat the ground, And conjure up strange feelings of despair.
With lines on maps too hard to see, Some call for less transparency; The nightmares of an orange clown, As walls go up the life
Amongst the blue-eyed leaves you made your beds, Conflicting patterns sailing on the breeze; Then weeds appeared with green and narrow heads, A nursery that
Across the vibrant reefs you snake and crawl, In search of shelter from an unseen threat; The shadows write their names in salty scrawl, Your