Pretending to be meadow is a marsh

Pretending to be meadow is a marsh.
My walk is but a sentimental march
Along the temporal anaemic vein.
The clotting grout of soil does not sustain

My wistful wishing for a solid perch
The crows had once found in a cursive birch.
Its ink stained branches are no longer crowed.
For it was felled and fell in its full load.

It was sawn up, a desecrated trunk
Abandoned in the tangled grass and sunk
Like shipwreck in the seaweed grasp
The avian parish letting out a gasp.

Whose fault is it that we're so slow to learn
This early burial's of our own concern?
Malevolent waters merging with decay,
The bank line blurred, the elms in disarray.

The dripping on my hood is strangely clear
As if each drop fell right onto my ear
Tympanic membrane trembling with eaсh drop.
The rain is showing no intent to stop.

I listen closely to the rotten fruit
That's pulsing in my chest, contracting brute.
My bathroom drain is clogged with cloying mire.
The rotten fruit is bound to expire.

So while I cough up dusty powdered leaves,
I thank my grieves, I thank the man who leaves,
I further thank my frail and faltering mind.
For they prepare for that, of which remind.