I crumpled the bottle and squashed the box into a bin marked green to travel far away I bought organic with the extra packaging weighing the guilt against the lack of sprays
Flouride in the water, cleared within alum chlorine cleansed and bacteria free versus water from a spring in Tipperary in a bottle that will never die or rot
The apple is local from a family farm but the caring privileged inheritance is trees sprayed with chemicals to make it perfect for display.
The organic fruit has been produced in a foreign land, clocking up food miles increasing carbon footprint on the journey hers but more bees survive due to their production.
The meat is the result of methane load outbursts from a field down the road warming the globe and melting the poles but the soya alternative has travelled for a week, from lands cleared where once was a forest uncut.
Standing in the middle aisle my mind clouded, between recycled and forest friendly paper that will clean my dirty bum.
Checking ingredients for palm oil supporting local producers because they are or buy the Dutch bio grown to save the soil fate of future generations held in balance of my consumer preference.
The road rambles into the decline,
One way to go, nowhere else to be.
The fresh water hurries to meet the sand, to wash with it to the sea.
Golden stretch in stone green embrace beneath a blanket of grey,
Torn to reveal a flash of blue,
and a golden promise behind the hill.