Sonnet

Any tree that does not produce good fruit is cut down.
You will be able to tell them by their fruit.
We know we reap what we have sown.
But all that we should do does not us suit.

I have brown fingers.
My vegetable patch is pitiful.
It’s only a weed that lingers.
How dare I ever be critical.

We should look up to heaven, its great glories.
And like Abram count the stars.
They could be a thousand times seven.
Recounting a million stories.

Pity about the Tesco’s superstore’s solution.
Ruining the show in this rural spot with light pollution.

Haiku

Look up to the skies
Hid by light pollution
It could be ended