Once the view wrapped all around.
Left and right, front and back,
up and down.
Once limbs of oak stood thick upon the ground,
and forests grew an honest shape
on land untamed.
Our necks would crane to take it in,
the neverending dream of sky
where tiny birds would
stitch their way across the blue
and cumuli would drift and bounce
or feather sweep and fly.
And on and on we’d see.
But now we turn and knock our heads
against a frame of Modern day.
The picture shrinks,
no room to crane as
canvas gasps and cracks and
weak-boned hands attempt
a futile push to stretch
the vista wide.
In time, there’ll be no landscape for the eye –
just fragments in reliquaries and shrines.