I Look at the Space in the Sky Where the Waste Incinerator Will Be


The farmer has carefully ploughed
to guide my gaze to the place where it will stand,
tall and impossible.
The inspector found no planning grounds
to reject red coughs or darkening lungs
so he brandished his pre-prepared stamp
and was gone.
So up it will fly, that rude salute
to waste and greed,
pluming beer cans up to toast the clouds
before they crash back onto the barley field,
and yoghurt pots will arc
briefly heavenward until they sink,
rancid with disappointment,
to smear the barns banana yellow,
the gates raspberry pink.
And just as the wide horizon
creates symmetry between soil and sky,
I assume that the chimney will stretch
as deep as it does high,
scouring hell for more income streams,
more filth to throw from the flue,
as if there were not enough wickedness
in the bottle tops that will rain on the dairy,
red, white and blue.

Nina Parmenter

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Nina Parmenter  would be pleased to hear them