It’s baking here in the south east of England, up into the middle thirties for the fourth day running and, absent a thunderstorm, will remain so until Friday at least. Even Dog’s searching for water
So here’s a gloomy little sonnet to light you on your way. And for anyone reading this in the Southern Hemisphere, bully for you. If your spring foretells what this sonnet anticipates, it’s going to be grim
A Springless Future
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.
Some, of course, are born for the heat…