The Graveyard of Climate Change

The earth shifted and a fitful groan echoed through the desertified landscape,

A sheet of plastic wrapped itself languidly around a tortured thorny tree,

across the sanded earth small creatures slipped between the drifting dunes

and on the horizon rose a cloud, hurrying them to huddle beneath the golden

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grains. Growing it then blotted out the sky and the sun strained to see the 

world that humans had created through their pleasure seeking parties;

that told the world that they were supreme idiots and ignorant idlers. 

The swift storm passed, taking the polluting plastic to another place

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where it hung on a post pointing to nowhere anymore because people

who built roads and homes and hosts of beautiful buildings were no

longer there having destroyed the globe with their glittering greed. They

live now under monuments to avarice and apathy in a forgotten graveyard.

Where Land is Rare

I stood on the cliffs and looked out to blue, blue sea,

the bobbing boats with lines and nets in the bounty.

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An innocence spread out on the tortured ruins below

the rippling waves where we came too    late, too       slow. 

Heard the bells of the churches and cathedrals calling

‘neath the waves in sadness and sorrow and raw regret.

I heard the bells of bicycles and front doors and a sound

of the clocks, that ticked away the rising waters of ice

melt, as the sun’s strength grew, and indecisive leaders

tried, and Canute like, failed to turn the trespassing tide.

I watched folk, weighed down with a silvery, fish catch,

as they carried their boxes up the fresh cut, cliff steps.

I laid a hand on my swelling tide of my own and felt

the hoped for baby tumbling beneath my trembling hands.

The heat of the sun bore down on us both and I turned

to return to the city, with its ancient walls, where windows

looked once on rolling fields; now upon rising tumbling waves.

An ancient settlement. Where fish are plenty but land is rare.