We sleep at noon
A poem about our denial of climate change
The smell of smoke had filled the air.
The herons called;
Their voice came on the summer breeze
A voice of calm despair.
The sleepers moved out from their beds -
Their straw-thatched, old
And wooden beds they’d made with their
Own backs, their hands and heads.
The water spouted out the hose.
The children came
And played till they were wet. They played
Like foes of friends of foes.
The sun moved lazily on its
Own charted path.
The old ones sat at Rama’s place
And held their chai and wits.
The beauty of the mother-dog
That took her pups
Out for a walk and pushed them on
Was not lost in the smog.
The smog had crept up from behind
Where cities lay
Where nomads lived they they were kings
In cash but not in kind.
The village wept and wept within.
It looked at industry
Like it were smothering
Her loving friends and kin.
She kept her ways and held her own
She kept her trees
And animals while jungles all
Around her turned to stone.
With loving grace, she took the hand
Of urban man and
Showed him how he’d lived before
In harmony with land
And water and the elements.
He saw that he could listen now
And stop the plague of travesty
That had him in his hold,
His noontime, shining gold.
They did not need to stop their course
They only needed common ground
So they could finally be one
And lift the common eye
Into a clear sky.
Together they could build it up
Or break it down as they would need.
It’d take a lot of truth and work
To make it whole again,
To dance, once more, in rain.
One head is better than none
But two are better than one.