In my April and come-what-May

In my April and come-what-May or some June
when the horizon remains as broken as the sky
and we, if we are spared, look down like drones
on the lies that spy-planes made of our living days
then I will continue to ask why, in this time of times,
was it human to turn on ourselves like this, to turn
on the soil and the trees, to throw dust and debris
on the earth as if nothing mattered but our pride?

© BH, 2022

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A fragment from another poem (unpublished) - The Long Road to November. As if armistice would be the first step to healing this crock of a world and it's wars over stuff and hubris. Yet again we are showing how capable we are at accepting division and hardship, destruction and death, in the name of human-centred ideals. But we bicker and deny the cataclysm we've set in motion across the planet. There the hardship is too great, the division not to be sought and death, no more than the unfortunate collateral of protecting the way things are now.

For all those (leaders, mostly) who have an eye on history and their place on the pinnacles of it, I have a reminder. If we are too proud to undo the things we have done to damage the world we live in, then we have no history worth the name. We deserve to burn ourselves out and fade out in the face of environmental ruin. No-one is going to look at your legacy and do anything but despair.