On terraced steps of ancient stone
With rich green moss-filled beds,
Where delicate white blossoms,
Hold high their dainty heads.
A lizard hasty scurries by,
Then hides in creviced stone,
Reminding all intruders,
That they are not alone.
The footprints of a Kangaroo,
Of dainty water bird,
Are lying all about the earth,
Whilst sound remains unheard.
In nature's garden, silently,
The curious eyes surround,
Whilst they in their timidity,
Forbid that they are found.


'The bulldozers are pushing forth
Their load of mud and slime,
The barren waste they left behind,
A mound of slag to climb.
No sight of birds or lizards quaint
Now peeping from the rocks,
A future's heritage destroyed,
By mindless present shocks.
Thus nature's garden is no more,
Its blessing lost to man,
Destruction cruel has now replaced,
A perfect nature's plan.
Our nature's garden yet remains
To haunt the memory,
Of those who lived its short bright hour,
Which never more shall be.

Poetry by Lynette Therese Day



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