The butterfly spread its wings,
as the sun rose late,
the scent of honeysuckle fills the air
on Michaelmas tide,
alighting to drink the sweet nectar it floats in my sight,
chilling my heart as the Autumn’s reign’s diminished.
Swallows and sparrows soar and chat as their
nestlings feed on the whining insects,
while others die of thirst and homelessness.
Small fruits hang on leafless trees ready for harvest,
miniature wheat and barley – barely usable,
and so the humble loaf, priced high will shrink
from the tables of the destitute and hardworking.
Across the burned hills, brown spreads like an ink blot,
til the green and pleasant land is gone.
Rivers barely move on their sluggish journey
to the plastic polluted seas and fish lay dead
on the bare, crumbling banks.
The crisis grows, our greedy government knows,
but still it sows its fracking carbon woes,
madness, insanity prevails, eager to stow honour and
creating rows of zeroes for the richly clad,
and for the poor, voiceless and wise shows
contempt even as they suffer and die.