I am made of earth, and a forest of trees have been ripped by the roots, from out of my heart. And then that once forest has been graded over by big machines. The little herbs not even getting the dignity of being turned under, they all are sitting in a pile of topsoil on its way to the dump. The big rocks that make up my deep foundations, ripped out like teeth. The smell of cooking tarmac, hot on the cold air.