Martin Robertson

Now and Then

The Rift
for Matthew

The scar-lips of the wounded wood

watch the sleek sweep of the road.

The exposed trees absorb the fumes

which seep into our smoky rooms.

Yet houses, rooms, these woods too, are,

no less than cigarette and car

creations of humanity.

From the astonishing age when we

(in Nature’s cyclic sleep long curled)

woke to ourselves and to the world

we have been forced to fight and fear

the natural world, that’s yet our dear

mother and love.  This paradox

(a rift in the firm-seeming rocks)

rives all we’ve done and all we could

do, as the car-road rives the wood.