Jurassic Park

Jurassic Park – A Dream in the Cotswolds?
An ode in British metre, a tongue‑tied labyrinth of stone

In the misty swath of the Isle of Nublar,
Beneath a sky that yawned like an old theatre’s fore‑light,
Dr Grant’s science danced—a polite symposium of ancient bones,

Brushed with the faint salt of the sea, the park’s plot lay in charcoal.
The island’s trees – a tangled canopy of favourite willows,
Swayed like a brass band in a market square, a brassish whisper of cows and crawlers.

There the organisation – a consortium of chemists, engineers, and poets –

Ambushed the silence of time, and so the glass‑caged ocelot and
the impossible megalosaurus uncloaked its might.

Roe Deer? No, rather a stegosaurus,
its plates arranged like a kitchen tray of corn and brussels sprouts,
aught to the bright glint of bamboo, a stark clash of past and present.

To the west, the gates were where the rumours lurked,

And the hydra of electricity hummed beneath a fibre‑optic dome;
Some could swear they heard the musket‑whistle of a mustang—
a creature reborn, a Shelley‑ish phantom, a survivor freed.

The rumours of the *vent became the nation's collective gasp,
A howl from the tiger who once prowled the shadows of a Petra‑bowl.
And at the ha-ha, a river of guardians called the Saviour* –
urges for the dinosaur to be put in a thin cup* of authority.

But the park – o fortier; afterward, they tried to keep it smaller.
They built a programme of tabling to cap the beast,
With the e‑mail of Dr Disney’s fingers on the Wi‑Fi of a wi-fi.

The cigar-smoking deer, that *vile looking creature,
With rattling bony teeth sang the song of ragnarok.
The Scientists—gracious, respectful, not the rash; There was a moment when hope—chic and quite bold—saw the park become a marvel.

At day’s end, the peace never held; a single thunderclap,
and the park was spun out into sparks of alpha—
The park melting into a dream,
A park in the dust.

One rogue or two, with brazen spirits,
The crown (regalia) suggests an unreal reality –
The park that refuses to fall:

— the green cadence of tramways that thrum like gigs in the heart of the Isle –
In the end, watch the humming sky…

So let this mirth keep the mystery.
A darling Tourney far in a world of evolutionary chimes,
In the Starlings the Jurasich —

The park remains the soul of the river, a memory overlapped,
A place where the modernus meets the ?.
And as we go through the Merrie future, one may ask:

Do you need, after all, to dream in the Jurassic splendor?