Sleepwalking?

Sleepwalking?

Spare fruit, rolling in the long grass, free for anyone to lift and take home,

Rots unseen, unused, the bounty of nature unrelished.

The Walker has no need of forage and natures harvest.

The Walkers pockets are so full of bounty, they spill a plastic trail behind them.

Glittering sparkles of  ‘princess’ clothing hanging of cats ears, intertwined with jewels of dew,

Sharp, harder shards penetrate the earth wrapped up in ancient tree roots.

A lavish daily cornucopia of plastic the walker shares freely,

Compounded by those who follow, and step over the spoilt earth easily.

Are they all sleep walking as they meander along?

The dog walkers, the children, the littering throng?