El Dorado
The half-lit wilting and leafless white Birch
against the pink and gray Pinatubo sunset,
their fragile contrast to the skyline like haggard wraiths.
We sit on a cement bench on the shore of the artificial lake
made of gunite and filled with reclaimed water,
pitching choclate raisins at mud hens.
Watching them tip on end to
retrieve the morsels in the dark slurry.
There is a constant sound of rushing water in the distance,
as if the cement river of the San Gabriel,
became confused with the roar
of the river grade freeway.
Wandering out we came upon the perfect circle
of brown and tan goose feathers, laid like a wreath
or a fairy circle.
The content of this symmetry fed a hungry predator.
This thing construed to provide illusion.
This stand of planted trees and sewer streams
can’t in its failing exhibition,
replace the wild and natural country
which was once El Dorado.
It can only convince you for a while.
poem by George Murdock
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
