The Mutiny Remains

This Parkland’s fit for ambush
We are puritan, scathing, dismal to the last
As those grand coronations are diffused
Remnants of trees stripped down centuries ago
But the mutiny remains. Party after party
Voices, sounds, echoes, scents too pungent to inhale
We still don’t wish to sleep within those great stone walls

Together, we flee our erudite captors
‘But we cannot be pure without you’ they call
We are so sought after. They would not let us leave
A thong gathered around us. ‘Stay, Sainted ones,’ they say
‘Bur we are stained,’ we respond. A prickly silence ensues
Our captors – heads bowed and tearful - resume their blackberrying