REASON.
Storm
clouds bubble
in promise
of rapid downpour.
Alas,
not able
to muster
a sprinkle today.
Not a spit.
No rainbows for white
cockatoos,
weaving and wrapping,
flirting with crimson
rosellas,
who are enjoying
eating the last of
the rose hips.
Old man, at the head
of the
table
shakes his head at
the folly he
sees.
Greed, amassed by
thieves,
breeds a fearful mob,
ready to destroy
this fragile garden,
no species
is immune.
Who
will be left to drink
from the river?
Fish, all dead. Eat
cotton instead?
Who will be left to
load the coal?
Air, putrid with
dust, all left to rust.
Where are the leaders
to inspire?
Gone to stoke the
funeral pyre?
Look, sunshine
whispers to the leaves,
spinning around in Autumn’s
breeze.
Still, time to be and
taste good tea.
Till old man at the
head of the table
calls and we
leave this
tower of Babel.
Oh,no!The old man has left the table. VGow 01/05/19
