Sheep look like maggots
standing there, clumped, mindless -
gorging on the carcass of the land.
Limestone, like jagged shards of bone
bleached and broken, emerging through
landslides of decaying flesh.
There are holes here, valleys,
Underneath, the land rots.
s a g s.
water drips through rock veins,
the rocks pressing d o w n.
There are things down here that grow from death;
parasites, feasting on the decay.
And the sheep stand there,
dead eyed on cliff-tops
as this carcass r o t s beneath my feet.
Written while driving through Waitomo, New Zealand.