Changing Scenes by Carolyn O’Connell

I am not a silent poet

Once the meadows shone with colour
strings of white, blue, red &yellow,
left to flower, seed, spread, only plucked
by children’s hands . But now they quiver
on the verge, while fenced, the meadow
sprayed and mowed is bare of blossom.

While in the gardens flowers bloom
tended by the caring hands that
work and watch their efforts prosper
encouraged by passion for a flower.

Yet each season thwarts their efforts
rain falls in places far too heavy
whilst others gasp for water as streams
vanish through ever drying winters.

Hidden in the land the rigs plunder
oil and gas to feed our need,
while out at sea the remnants of our
throw away economy are ingested
by the fish we eat, and the coral’s colours
fades to deathly grey as temperatures
rises ice melts the poles. The bear
and penguin search for safe routes.

Even the jungles screech in…

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