The dust that descends over roadside hedges,
On walls, fences and along the edges,
Comes from the ever moving needs,
Of vehicles, racing at tremendous speeds.
Unknown destinations, their one concern,
Doesn't matter that they continually churn
And splatter mud, simply everywhere,
Once they've gone past, they never care.
The dirt on the wayside then settles and dries,
Even on some startled and irate magpies,
Making really sad, dreary and sombre views,
In dull, dismal colours, not nature's hues.
And only by a heavy abundance of rain,
Will it be cleansed, and turn green again.
Ah! The famous motor car, we all seem to own one, where would we be without it? But sometimes the price seems way too high, A strong statement of a poem Thankyou Ernestine Love duncan X
Have no fear...Frankies got the answer here: Taller fences with an immitation radar gun hanging in plain sight, about 200 yards before the fences...Great story concept, young lass...and delivered as always with inventive quality! ~ F. j. R. ~ -02/03/07-
great poem ernestine, sad dreary and sombre views, sounds like england alright...
Ernestine, Once again...you take me there...nice! Regards, Ray
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Yes, many times I've been splattered by passing vehicles, I sometimes think they do it on purpose. A wonderful poem, love, Andy xx