My Breathing

My breathing,
Fast and shallow
Like the tide
Over coral.

Tropical,
My thoughts,
Dense dreams
Where memory was fever.

On the sandbar islands,
Turtles struggled up the beach
To dig deep, crying harsh sand tears;
They were burying time, only tomorrow
Mattered, theirs and ours, a treasure
Of impossible futures.

Storm on the horizon
Closed on the shore,
Waves of broken water
Beat the reef's rising flank
Pushed turbulence deep
As the wind above,
Slowed and rotated,
Plunged beneath the swell.

It may have been a dream
When the mantas flew deep
Or dwarf minke hung curious
And motionless;
A dream, maybe, or a premonition:
Such moments contain the truth of the seas;
So many deep mysteries still to fathom.

To landward,
Water is calm and warm,
But over the interior's hill and forest
Different storms grind and burn,
Grey water runs in rivers:
Poison to the sea.

To seaward,
Shipping on a safe horizon
Slips out of sight like a thief at dusk.
Carries away the land’s last riches:
Gains ill-gotten, ill-omened,
For all their worth,
Expensive rubble.

In my night,
A sweat like sea welling up
Drowns where I am now beached.
My heart scuttles, crabs
Sideways in mangrove roots.
Bioluminous flashes flicker
Behind my dream-shut eyes.
I bring my own lightning;
Rain is forever.

Only beneath the waves
In crowded paradise
Can I hear the planet's breathing
Softer than my own, more vast,
And the insouciant fishes
Stare out my soul, without accusation.

Drowning they might say,
Is too good for you,
Whose people are barren
Whose barrenness leaks
From the shore like filth.

Drowning is too good,
They say, in a cold glance,
And we need less of you not more.
While the lives we have ebb away
Because of what you've done
Because of what you refuse to do.

© BH 2016

---

I had a fever. Nothing major. Just bed-sweat and hacking coughs. The lot of 21st Century humans. There were dreams. Having watched David Attenborough diving on the Great Barrier Reef, these were the scenes in the fitful sleep I had.

I composed the first few lines half asleep in bed. Truly. 

I grew up with Attenborough. From the early days in his safari suit. To the august days of his seniority.  I feel he speaks for me. There is a threat to us all from our wantonness on the face of this planet. It comes authentic from his lips. Never mind this climate change thing. What about oceanic acidification, habitat loss, species extinctions? We're the buggers in the woodshed.

So, how could I not, in my mild, first-world sweat, dream of the end of the world as we know it. Deep in the blue ocean, where everything is forgotten or safe? How no? This man has seen the dead coral first hand. Watched the mantas look on perplexed.

Hell in a hand-cart. Easy done. We just go on not giving a stuff. Davy's old now. I'm not far behind. But, sure, some of our elder counterparts have much to answer for. For now, there's still a profit to be turned. But not for long. Not long now.