Grapes.

Smoke over the horizon

as Marsden Moor burns,

releasing 11,000 tonnes of carbon

held in precious peat bogs

for millennia, tipping the balance

of the atmosphere,

of the gaseous blend

of the Earth’s duvet.

Soot falling like rain

in the valley, black pavements

by satanic mills

among England’s pastures green

“improved” grasslands,

which used to be sponges.

Shanks and ribeye steaks, finished

on these overstocked deserts.

Britiannia’s once wet spine

drained of its fluid.

The M62 cuts T6.

Connectivity broken

fragmented biomes

neat, linear ecotones where

wildlife used to thrive

now struggle to survive

Is this dominion?

I cross myself

& wipe ash from snakeskin boots.