Cold Jack, content and job well done, creeps home,
Allowing Spring her turn to warm the earth.
Crocus tongues push out through softening loam
As glass-eyed shepherds watch their flock give birth.
We, unplucked youth, prime cocked with urgent sap,
Feel the tug of Nature’s call to breed.
Like sheep, we follow Her bewitching map
To plant, in fertile earth, our febrile seed.
Yet somewhere Nature’s diverse scheme is lost;
Our black-fuelled lust sears seasons into one.
Our greed neuters Jack; he’s become a ghost,
Sharp fingers culled by a remorseless sun.
Why should our lambs breed, after this breach of trust?
We’ve fried this once green Earth, turning it to dust.
This gloomy look at our future, in the light of climate change came back to me seeing the latest #writephoto prompt
A brilliant, if tragic, sonnet, Geoff.
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Thanks Sue. If only it was fantasy…
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The earth has her own seasons…
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Wow! I love your sonnet. It is a warning, though.
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If only we would pay a bit more attention to the evidence. It’s amazing what we can do when we put our minds to it.
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I agree with Sue Geoff this is epic 💜
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Thanks so much…
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A pleasure 💜
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So lyrical, Geoff
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Thank you
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I was just reading about the massive Sahara dust storm now darkening the skies of the south. And the heat wave in the Siberia. Oh yeah, none of it good.
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And all self inflicted… grrr
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This is brilliant, Geoff, beautiful and poignant, a celebration and a diatribe in one. Every word is perfect.
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Thanks George!
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