Sacred ground...untouched by man;
Where Nature is still reigning Lord.
By the stream, a twisted hollow oak stands,
Where the Whitetails drink and ford.

Places that by grace have gone unscathed;
These hallowed grounds I roam...
Greedy eyes have yet to focus upon
these parcels I call home.

Sacred places that surround you...
Gentle and peaceful, Harsh and mean !
Left and right and all around you...
Their precious spoils, yet to glean.

Perhaps you catch a fleeting glimpse...
But, they are seldom ever seen.
For, they play no part in your daily lives;

They're just places...in between.

They escape your eye as you hurry by;
In your heaps of steel and chrome;
These tiny, scattered Edens...
These parcels I call home.

You see the bloated carcasses...
Discarded objects...
trash and me...
As I sprint across your life-line...
to enter these leafy canopies.

Lifeless eyes,
within a ditch;
A mongrel stray
thats been struck down.

To the hurriers,
he's a horror;
That makes them gag
in route to town.

The workers of the highway come...
and shovel him from the scene;
He met his demise
at the gates of Paradise;

Seeking places...in between.

At night, as I lay
'neath the hollowed oak...
She emits an eerie moan...

Sounds of mourning...
for smitten lovers...
of scattered Edens,
We call home.

***