As I you gaze across the open vista
The term that come to mind is blandscape!
No features attract my eye
Nothing tops the wind blown reeds
Or does mankind’s thirst for gravel make this a manscape?
Does the 1916 conflagration not call
Of lost souls through act of war
Though not acknowledge as such!
Their mass grave not tended like that of the soldiers
Who died using the explosives they made
Now nature takes hold
The reed beds alive with warblers, tits and buntings
The whistling Widgeon in the winter
Heron, Egret, Grebe and Kingfisher blue
Harriers hunt the fringes unaware of the deadly origins of their home