Some speak of the inevitability of progress.
While I rhyme of springtime
And trees that bud in ancient woods.
But autumn will surely come
And the trees undress.
Bare branches breed despair in some.
But spring sun will come
And buds appear in gardens and woods.
For nature has her cycle
Of death and rebirth
And cares not for what
We label as progress.
I saw the lightning flash
Across the sky
And heard the crash
Of thunder
And I
Paused to wonder
On those who stress
The inevitability of human progress
Walking through the churchyard
On a freezing evening,
I consider progress. ,
And pass by
Fading inscriptions
On tombstones.
Leaves turn brown
‘Ere they fall
To waiting ground.
I heard
A bird’s
Alarm call.
Autumn will become
Winter. The sun
Will burn out.
Some still shout
Of human progress
While leaves fall.
As for me
I do not agree
With the inevitability
Of progress. Good poetry
And friends
Are ends
In themselves.
Give me
Oak bookshelves
Laden with treasures.
These are the pleasures
I would have
To make me glad.
Barely a bird I heard.
The wind blew,
And a fallen tree
Spoke to me
In words most true
Of the progress of humanity.
I think on those who obsess
Over what they label “progress”.
And, on hearing the wind sing
In the venerable old tree,
I laugh, for all must pass.
Magpies chatter in a winter sky,
And as I
Traverse this woodland track
I look back
And think on the half-lie
We call progress.
The thoughtful squire,
Sitting by his study fire,
Or on hearing the magpies
chatter,
May have had the same thought as I;
That dreams of utopia,
Shatter,
And turn to distopia
Of the Marxist, or laissez-faire kind.
I would rather the country squire
And the open log fire
Than a society
Where variety
Is spurned, in favour of uniformity.
Or a world where value is defined
By the bottom line,
And nothing is divine.
The hands trace
The clock’s face
Then
, Go round again.
Progress. Yes?
Or no?
The hands go
round, and round
I prefer
Sitting in an old, comfortable armchair,
Reading traditional rhyme
As my clock’s regular chime
Speaks of a more ordered time,
To the idea that we must
Forever thrust
Towards some utopian goal
Where my soul
Is nothing when
Compared to the common good
Of collective men.
I would
Rather sit in my armchair
Or, out of my window stare
not at some abstract “common good”
But at a fine old tree
That will outlast me
Unless some vandal destroy that tree
In the name of a better society,
That will never be.
K Morris - Poet 