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As slow moon climbs the wind-torn sky,
The Danube makes her stately way
To lose herself on Black Sea shores
That lie one thousand miles away.

And from the distant Russian Steppe
The wild wind sighs with icy breath
And warns each creature, bird or bug
To hide at home in den or nest.

And what of those who have no home?
The spider in her severed web
Or tiny beetle out in search
Of place to lay its sleepy head.

It seems that once someone had cared
And planted flowers in two round beds,
Geraniums now choked by weeds
In slow decay shake weary heads.

The path is cracked, the rooms are locked
The walls are crumbling, flaked and chipped
The wooden bench that once was red
No longer offers place to sit.

So as I gaze out in the dark,
Beside the weeping willow tree
I wonder at this slow neglect,
The rising tide of apathy.

The Euro MP in her suit
In Feng Shui garden yesterday,
Who seemed so wise about ‘the East’
Resides in comfort worlds away.

She’d surely draw attention to
The new car parked on former lawn,
As sign of growth, prosperity
But on this night all seems forlorn;

That what is shared falls to decay,
And withers slowly into nought,
The individual free to park
On values that are sold and bought.

I do not think that those of us
Who toasted to the Berlin wall
As it was smashed by human faith,
Envisioned such a hopeless fall.

© Frances Bathgate, January 2008