Root up your favourites, post them somewhere else.
The land where you first planted them has died.
New settlers hang your mysteries like pelts
of squirrels upon their handlebars, and ride
across the melting ice floes where you dwelt.
They tan your loves they want to hoard inside
their ugly houses built on IOUs.
They desiccate your secrets for their news:

Young commentators analyse your words,
and underscore the syllables you used,
as signs to rustle thoughts you kept in herds.
They’ve cowed you now. The branding’s left you bruised.
Old analysts trawl gems they make absurd
and quarter your last hobbyhorse. Amused?
Retrieve your darlings. Loose them in those cold
and empty places dreams can still take hold.

TFP (today’s featured poem) of 19.9.2011