Could it be that summer's come at last? E Braidwood, 2023
Could it be that summer’s come at last?
For months it’s seemed like just a memory,
An anecdote, imprisoned in the past –
A half-remembered voiceless melody.
Yet now the yellow sun reflects its wealth
within the glowing borders of the path;
Forget-me-nots have now forgot themselves,
Soon we will forget the home and hearth.
So stride out, sun-drawn, picnic bag in hand,
Amongst a canvas town built on the shore;
Anointed, self-appointed, Lord of Sand!
Not grey and bitter peasant, rat, or bore...
'Til sunburnt, sweating gold, triumphant-trawl
back home, and then forget it all.
I have watched my children grow
up smaller every year;
Where once, they spread their arms to breathe,
They now just shake with fear.
And thinner-grown about the trunk,
And sickly at the roots;
No longer tended by the weary
Wearing weary boots.
I have watched bound roots let go
which once were intertwined;
Seen the young asphyxiate
For Sir, the Undersigned.
And as where there's little growth, there's loss,
They grow smaller every year;
And heed the quiet violence,
Of our idle fear.
I have watched the forest thin
before my sunken eyes,
Fearing all the light let in
By swollen, hateful skies;
But helping felt impossible and so
I did not try.
(A sad refrain heard time again
Spoken by you and I...)
...Now no-one's left to help at all.
So not one will survive;
We've just the debt
Of old regret:
No children left alive.