Shame-faced

Shame-faced I imped my response
Upon the late library copy of Carol
Rumens, the swell of the hopeless
And lame-excused, happily all in all
To abandon oneself to the fine of Nature
That accumulates with lost ice floes
Which in the vastness of Emily’s compass
Seems awesome and breathtakingly tragic
Would it be only condensation on bubbles
In the Garden of Worldly delights, or but
A globule of dew on the morning grass
Except , in the godly sites, the burden of
Man and woman’s span, graces the blues
Of seas and skies, with the greyness
Of unheard prayers, and the darkness of hell,
If one could only draw inspiration from this
And change like the caterpillar to butterfly
Turn the clocks back, to the time of Emily
At least, then with industry revolt against progress
Which demands the decimation of the natural
Leaving in its wake, images or words as keepsake
Shamefaced I limned our demise
In the style of the archive, as Philip Pain
Meditating on the shipwreck that is our peril.