Village boy Impressions

Where are the showers?  That should be greening the fields?  The rains should be here A good month since.  Where is the morning dew?  We should be turning the soft loamy earth, planting seeds, tending the offshoots, looking forward t o the harvest already. Instead, we are trapped in this  rainlessness, this heat, and  lifeless brown.      Where is the new grass? that should be returning the cows, t o health and freshness? Where is the new saplings, That is the delight of the sheep and the goats? It is not lateness  when the fields  are brown in June. It is not lateness, w hen the stream is dry in August  It is the fightback, t he revolt of an ailing Earth.  The rainmaker is sick;  exhausted  from our plunder, our exploitation, our g nawing, burning, breaking,  pumping, dumping… From all of our greed. All of our poison!  Droughts where once were floods Floods where once were deserts And everywhere, are D...

Hurt not the trees! The trees! The trees! Oh hurt not the trees! These majestic giants,  Robed in green glory; Thick as thieves, Meek as mice,  Ancient even as the land.   Silent, calm, dignified. Shedding their incense  upon a neglected realm. Long have they stood,    deep in their root, tall in their reach massive in their girth keeping watch over us; from the blazing sun above,  the blistering earth at our feet, and the carbonic gas in air. Come, let us go on our knees to thank and praise their worth! Oh, what a sight they make; What a view to see; What beauty to admire;  Cheek to cheek,  shoulder to shoulder, with intertwining boughs  muttering their supplications  over this wretched thoroughfare that has received naught but promise upon promise  yet cannot be mended And now to be without them? They're the first shade of welcome  and the last sigh of goodbye upon this dusty stretch. Is their death the price we must pay...