They are building fences,
where there were trees,
brash and ‘functional’, unnecessarily high,
with none of the beauty that might follow function,
just a barrier to the eye,
to keep in dogs whose highbred bodies cannot jump.
‘This is ours,’ they say,
this pile of turned earth, this parking space,
‘and we do not care how much our boundaries invade your space or shut down our view.
This is ours.’
With a closing, a turning of the back upon the world beyond the pale,
these wooden walls turn neighbours into ‘us’ and ‘them’.
Copyright © 2014 Fliss Watts
(With thanks to The Dancing Professor for a reminder and a trigger.)