If every generation grows up in an increasingly impoverished environment, their expectation of what should be there declines too.
The unremarked extinction of the night sky.
You know, that orange haze up where the universe used to be.
A monochrome world.
Zombie cows in astro-turf fields. The pre-medicated foodchain.
Agribusiness, meet big pharma.
The progressive necrosis of society’s fuck-giving gland.
No wonder children take refuge in photorealistic, triple A worlds.
We were raised on a smallholding in the sunny 70s.
It was relatively rammed with wildlife. The whole spotter’s guide ensemble.
Not that naming things is seeing them.
We were familiar with every inch of the countryside for miles.
Woods and fields, hedgerows, seasonal pools, leaf litter and the summer canopies of trees.
The excited chatter of blackbirds at dusk.
Now, in town, I stood amid the urban grime and clutter.
One of the Matrix Composers had set down a perfect CGI Japanese cherry tree.
It stood in a little sea of dandelions.