By Anne Irwin
When earth cries out
as old men’s bitter hearts
hang like yellow leaves on their twisted politic,
the orange enables genocide
to receive The Nobel prize for peace,
another bombs his neighbour’s children
to escape prison for accepting bribes.
They squawk on a branch
that shakes against winter’s cold.
Their ruined choir
now sings the twisted croaks of their demise.
A lowly intelligence officer pumped by greedy mates
preening himself in the glowing of the fire
drops bombs and missiles across borders
to expand his ego’s empire.
He too, like leaves, will wither to clay.
A slimy man feeling the twilight of his day
on seeing the light of spring and hope arise,
puffed with caustic spite, he advises
his blustering colleagues
‘Smear the bejesus out of her.’
as he tries to claw out of his anonymity.
From the ashes of their twisted hearts
like golden leaves mulched in mother earth
she will rise. In her fresh-leafed branches
sweet birds of hope and love will sing again
Spring is coming.
