by Martin Rowson
Some years ago George Monbiot
Told me his rewilding schemes,
Worthy and exquisite plans
For reconnecting rootless we
With the Eden in us all,
With our internal wilderness
Caught inside, like Milton said,
And trapped in dreams or yearning hope,
But with his help we can break out
Of our enclosed hearts.
And although Covid's done its best
To batter at the balustrades
Of human hubris, then as now
Nature still requires some help
From her murderers' hands.
Enlightening landowners was,
He said, the way to dam against
The ecocidal flood now washing
Through the laceholes of our boots
And corroding all our souls.
There was a problem though, he said.
The landowners all loved his schemes,
And saw them as a final chance
To clear out all their tenants so
A hundred wastelands bloom.
Which goes to show that, while poor George
Rambles on the path to hell,
His knapsack spilling good intentions
Like breadcrumbs in the hungry woods,
Eden's just bolus in the serpent's guts.