By Sally Richards
Scorched Earth
Fires rage:
horizon a haze of dusty grasses
awaiting their fate –
flames lick, spit, chase, roar –
demonic acrobats
engulf, consume;
in their wake gothic bleakness.
Green once reigned
sang abundance
sheltered violets, wood anemone,
stinging nettle, dock leaf,
robust cuckoo spit,
the many colours of Joseph’s Coat.
It will recover:
scorch bringing forth,
re-birthing,
creating new life,
until then
black has taken green.
Too Much
There’s a lot going on
as if Covid wasn’t enough:
barricaded, isolated, lonely,
infected
children anxious
so much was expected.
Floods, fires, protests,
war
stoked by faith, ideology
need;
lost children, homes, identity;
small hands reach out
plead.
There’s too much going on;
pensioner’s freeze,
their cold familiar breath
the toxic mould
of someone else’s greed.
Disabled paralysed
by fear
not just fate;
for their future, existence,
they sit … and wait.
Will a higher power
bring down their fist
say: “enough!”
Where’s a Saviour
when life’s so tough.
There’s too much going on
just too much.
Grim Reaper Government
The Grim Reaper is back again
creeping, reaping
his rewards:
souless ghoul
of the otherworld
not their world:
cutting down, cutting back
scything, hacking …
he needs to gather more
more!
for his burgeoning coffer –
skeletal finger pointing:
“you! … yes you! I pick you!”
The grim reaper is here again
deaf to protests,
cloaked,
heartless eyes
striking fear
anticipation
of his next hit:
slashing, splicing
remorseless
searching for more
vulnerable
souls to rob
beware,
take care –
The Grim Reaper is here
again.
