I look at myself
And I am grown old.
You say you love me
But I am not the one.
I see trouble ahead - I say
Ready to pounce – you say
I told you so.
The baby is in ruins – not much of it left, I dreamt.
The wind is prowling, maybe off it's head, I said.
Raging in pain the planet is plaintive, you said
We carry on.
We carry on.
And my mother, in her cups,
Is dying.
The year, in its throes
Is dying.
The bees, in their hives
Are dying.
And I am so sorry, so sorry.
The voices argue over again
and I remain dumb.
VH 2008
