A KIND OF DROUGHT

A KIND OF DROUGHT

A KIND OF DROUGHT

In our land
We found a bird
that sings.
A bird
that will tell it all:
We can’t trust humans anymore:
                What if –
                What if we send
                What if the one we send
                What if the only one available
is the father of
the mother of
the uncle of
the aunt of the sister of – ?
In our land
We – you – all – are alone.
Everyone you know (or knew) is gone!
Everyone you thought you knew
you don’t know anymore.
Only roads.
Only roads don’t betray.
(Pot-holed though they may be.)
No, roads don’t lie.
They always bring you
or someone like you
to bump into each other
round a corner.
Trees, as well.
Trees.
Only trees.
Yes, trees.
They remain
the same old faithful parents.
You can climb them.
You can hide behind them.
(Or go round and round and round
behind, to the side, or in front of them).
You can chew their leaves for water.
You can chew the roots
to cool the pain in belly or limb
and, there is always, always, the fruit.
And, of course, out of the sun, the shade.
And, finally, you can safely die under a tree.
In our land
the trees can be trusted
and sometimes they hide someone
who feels just like you do
and for a while
there are just the two of you
to frighten the darkness away
if only, only if,
if only
you can come to a river.