Wordsworth again

There was a time when I was not oppressed:
words formed within my head
and I knew what they meant.
Now, everything has changed, and I am scared.
Verbs whistle through the air,
find a bare space within the printed lines
and nestle arrogantly;
telling me that in this post-modern age
we must keep up, keep pace, keep time
or we are failures.
They tell me they are NEW, and therefore Good.
They're AI generated, formed faster than I can think
and faster must be better.
I rebel! I say: consider this:
standing at the edge or a wide stretch of water,
in evening stillness, quiet ripples,
and on the far horizon, sun sinking,
forming a final burst of splendour
burnishing the water, turning it golden
while at the rim a garden glows,
rows of scarlet carnations, orange marigolds,
indigo bluebells, dancing in thin lines…
so I build a small boat,
tie a white handkerchief for sail,
push it onto the water, where the wind catches it
and propels it onwards, into the sunset.
I watch the white sail diminish
grow tinier and tinier
till it is only a white dot against the edge of the world…
then into darkness
I am not afraid

(6-7-26)