Driving over smooth tarmac on the resurfaced
stretch of road, I stab off the rock CD
in a temper. Following the turn of the motorway
a quick cast of a cold eye reminds me that
bulldozers have peeled off turf the way
Hong Kong restaurateurs will skin a live snake.
Dumper trucks have carted soil away.
The triangulation pillar’s gone.
The summit of the Black Hill is disappearing
into a pit.  Diggers strike.
Millennia of strata will be crushed to supply
the hunger for hardcore. I strain to catch a glimpse
of brown stain on skyline.