The peoples of the land knew, their world
Each plant, the uses they might be put to
The elixir’s and the cautions inherent
In the most benign and kindly plants.
For longer years than may be remembered
Avoided nightshade’s, or hemlock…
Foxglove concoctions may only be used,
By those with the old knowledge.
For most every malaise,
A concoction or remedy was available
But, only to those with shaman know-how
That know-how often passed down in generations.
The roots, stem leaves buds, or flowers
Each may be enlisted, with acquaintance
Binding a poultice, or bruising, while…
Joining with other remedy’s like honey.
Which, individuals do we owe?
Were they witches, or those following a path
Trodden by ancestors who followed the Seasons
In complete, harmony with nature.
Remember, March April and May
Each as the Earth turns
Awakens the silent call of Spring
New birth, be it plant or mankind.
How we squander, such precious gifts
We cull without consideration, of consequence
Cut down, destroy and reek annihilation
Without concern, even for ourselves.
It’s to late, for the old to lament
They threw away their inheritance
They burned and pillaged what was theirs
Their birth right, discarded.
Is it too late, to trust the young
Are our mistakes ingrained, intrinsic
perhaps, perhaps not…
Will they ever see, a wild meadow?
Bursting, almost blushing with insect attractions
Scents, subtle frenetic pheromones
In flower heads of every conceivable colour
How sad, to lose all, to Man’s selfish lust.