Red Sky at Mourning

Something of a lament for a lost Jersey....

Red Sky at Mourning

Once this was a farmhouse, complete
With family, the generations so replete
With joy, farming the soil, not easy life;
But with sound roots, so little strife,
Except that against the weather, rain,
Wind, snow, these brought the strain
In this life, but then they left the land;
The generations diminished, as sand
Flowing out of hourglass, ticks away,
Until no one remained, none to stay;
And the granite homestead deserted,
Forgotten, empty, none disconcerted
At the change and decay all around;
Broken windows, but not a sound
Of laughing children, not an echo
To remind of how it had been so;
And then developers come along
With greedy eye, sing siren song;
Odysseus blocked ears, but now
Speculation, riches entice, endow;
The old farm will be raised down
By builders of some great renown
With planning departments, and so
Become mere rubble, taken, dumped,
While new vibrant plans are trumped;
Words used as a spell, to advertise
Where one building lay, seven arise
Luxury dwellings, expensive exhibit:
And no one cares, apart from profit!
For this was not done out of need,
But destroyed for beguiling greed;
The sun will rise, folklore warning:
Red sky means a farm in mourning.