Foreword: One danger or risk in writing is The Mood taking over. You have this urge to write ‘something’ in the style, even the content you have doubts about. This could be using a format you are not comfortable with or a subject matter which you are sure ‘needs more work’. And yet The Mood insists that this is how it will be. Part of you is still urging caution and suggesting the result should be put away for another day to be nuanced, worked on with reflection, jagged parts given a better ‘finishing’. The Mood will have none of that; it insists on the raw product be made public; The Mood in this case fancies itself to be a distant cousin of Melpomene, the Greek muse of Tragedy and bothered me to produce this. Truth be known I know not just what form this is. I dare not suggest poetry as that could bring sad shakings of head or even noises of disapproval from genuine poets. It may be some kind of monologue or soliloquy  in a play never to be written. All I am certain of is that it is a response to the news of several floods, droughts, fires and storms this year coupled with the continued presence of the Denial Industry, its Political Appointees and Social Media acolytes. (And probably influence of three or four Scottish laments which are ever in the back of my mind. No one does laments like the Scots) 

                  I was born
                When the seasons sang
                To an ancient song
                  With a warning verse
                  Of our vulnerability.
                  But our vanity and greed
                  Plugged our ears
                  Blinded our eyes
                  Said it would all be fine
                  There would be sunshine
                  After all the rains
                  And the storms were but passing trials
                  Cured by reassuring leaders’ smiles.
                  And mercenary pundits’ lies

                  Now the forests burn
                  Consuming innocents’ homes
                  While the begged for rains
                  Gather in far off tribes
                 Thus, with cousins grim
                  Sweep other folk away
                  Into seas that warm,
                  In their silent scorn.

                  There will come the day
                  Mayhap not so far away
                  When my eyes will close
                 For the very last time.
                  Weep not for me,
                  I will be at rest.
                  Save your tears for those
                  Who are left behind
                  To the wild, hot fiery winds
                  The raging storms
                  And the blazing sun
                 That blazing sun.