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