An air of quiet excitement fills me;
And I feel I should be quaffing champagne.
Or wine grown from the crystal waters
Of our nurturing Mother Mountain
I see the Mountain
And her city.
Feel the breeze as it slides
Gently down her green slopes
And hear the sounds of the busy city folks.
She nestles the city
Born as a garden,
Suckled by her crystal waters.
Those sparkling waters
That fed the land
And grew an opulent garden of abundance;
Feeding ships from across the world.
Farmers, wine makers,
Brewers and adventurers
To our Mountain’s maternal feet.
Artists and poets
Extolled her beauty.
Architects sculpted buildings,
Monuments to the memory
Of their forsaken homes.
Garden of plenty,
Small city of promise.
And now at night
The city lights
Mirror the sky;
And the Mountain sighs.
An uncertain sigh;
Not sure that all is well with her child.
Her lush, green swaddling blanket
Is being cut
And turned to concrete and stone.
Her crystal streams
Now find paths under
The urine-steeped concrete and tar.
Beggars eke out an existence
And sleep in gutters around the church.
Even the pigeons in her garden of plenty,
Prefer to beg than collect the succulent seeds.
Stoically, Mother Mountain looks on,
Faced to the dangers of the sea,
Back against the hordes of the hinterland.
Will her city-child outgrow his profligate ways?
Will he become the sparkling gem
Promised by the crystal waters
That spawned him?
The breeze strengthens
And slowly the Table Cloth
Covers her Table.
By: SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD
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