12th June 2021
In years before, the wise
Would have known such weather as punishment.
A mid-May blasting gale which
Rips down small branches,
Strips set fruit:
All across our peninsula its sea-stolen spray
Burns late blossom
And brown-blackens newborn leaves…
‘Punishment,’ ancients would have agreed,
‘For something we have done.’
Perhaps they’d have been sure they knew what –
Or maybe not, thus much enquiring into souls.
Today we can be certain: the blame is ours,
We spoilt ones of the West
Who have so poisoned the air with known guilt and,
Though much warned,
Persist with that poisoning – worsen it, even.
We threat the very equilibrium
Which in the past
So peaced the potent humours of this atmosphere,
We flourished; and came to believe ourselves
Civilised and rational.
© Christopher Jessop 2021