The City is Everywhere

When I was young the skies were blue

When I was young the skies were blue, the fields were green and the animals roamed. Now the fires burn and the skies are grey. The hills lie covered in concrete, these small boxes hold the dreams of man, while skeletal trees plead ever upwards.

Oh, I remember the cries of the fish eagle, piercing and wild, seeking and circling. It flew above my home on quiet days, we’d stop and listen, smile and give thanks. Now the skies hum and whirr with delivery birds. At the beck and call of Consumption’s Beast.

The rain fails then falls in floods, it stings and spits. The sky cracks and down it comes, flashing and crashing through houses of tin and borrowed screws. The banks crumble and break as forewarned, new lakes appearing overnight, knee deep in our living room.

Our city grows, it absorbs more wayward souls from the rural past. Welcoming the starry eyed into the city lights. A life of hard work under a hot sun, given up for long nights under harsh lights. Faceless and forgotten in the shantytown, less known than at home where the postman called by name.

Gone are the wild edges, the mountain cats and the baboon troops. Land is precious, people are plenty, up go the arms and down come the trees. No, the city has swallowed whole the rivers, the lakes, the forests, and the seas. Nothing scurries or crawls, but hungry men, no beetles or bees in our cities.

This city was beautiful, wedged between mountain and sea. An isle of man, within nature’s bosom. Stand on our roof and you’d see her, three sides of our valley she stood and smiled. Now stand on our roof and take your chances, shots fired, the cops are tired. The city is everywhere.

This story is a response to the prompt Wilderness Lost.

If you like this one, try the next in the same world Rubbing Shoulders.