The crows swing silently
On the telephone wires
Like a row of mourners
Blackly attired.

Yellow hatted men toil away
Their saws screeching,
Nothing to say!

A tree topples, then the rest,
A small copse gone.
The birds screech and fly away
A fox begins to run.

Smart office blocks -
And tarmaced roads.
Urbanised - now part of town.
The fox begins his nightly round.

No birdsong in this blighted place
No swaying trees, no flowers to grace.
Neon lights - commuter rage
The price we pay for progress sake!

Cecilia Parkin

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/urbanisation/