Hackers: Musings on a Molehill

by Gregory Walton-Green

(source: mikeashworth.co.uk)

Musings on a Molehill

I saw a molehill in a field

Break through the lines of living green,

With regimented rows of wheat

Usurped by poppies, which lowered their yield.

I gazed awhile upon this scene;

This thought appeared within my head:

Those moles who ravage ordered crops

Free the Earth for blooms of red.

My mind fell down a rabbit-hole

To investigate the mole.

Released from how the surface seems

I burrowed into Forms of dreams.

I was a sewer-rat in France

Amidst the dank of hell

In haste I scurried

Eternally worried

Scared lest the walls fell.

Drudging through the dirty Styx,

I came to a drain beneath the granary;

And there in a hollow,

Where none should have followed,

I placed my base offspring.

I was gold music in a cage,

A mole dragged me deep underground,

He quarried hope to earn his wage

When suffocating greed was found.

I stopped myself, self-sacrifice

My voice in exchange for his life:

For silence hides the darkest crimes

Unchallenged moles control the times.

When underneath the soil living,

Grieve if there are no birds singing.

But I've deceived you.

I spoke as if Ideals were reality;

Unashamedly anthropomorphising,

My musings made a mountain.

No poppy can bloom near the work of farming men.

Poppies are delegated to the slate thin soil of forgotten wastelands,

While moles luxuriate in the riches of the earth.