It happens and you are rooted to that spot,
those clashes of memory that burrow into an
existing foundation,
carelessly and tirelessly shifting rocks
out of the way, their tumbles crunch and splash
as integration painfully starts.
Where was the warning?
What do you have in your hands now?
A patchwork hill of mounds, covering
alien entryways and you just live with it,
you can only embrace the alterations
despite their ravaging and disruption.
That whistle of wood overpowering,
taps in rhythm and time,
out of place to you alone,
you can only stop in knowing dread
as you realise it has overlaid,
it was as if it were always a presence,
and there is no changing,
there never was
once the first clump
of soil was thrown back in abandon.