Friday, 01 April 2022
A poem for the 26th annual American
National Poetry Month
Rain
The rain, when it came,
I thought would never stop.
The sky went charcoal, almost black;
rumbles of on-coming thunder
distant still, but closing in, like
war-time artillery. If the scene
had been born of pen it would
have been dystopian fiction,
but this was real, living, breathing
catastrophic Nature protesting
against what Man was doing to the
planet it was supposed to protect
and love like a child. An infant full
of innocence with a right to hope
for a bright future; a host of prosperity
and riches of experience, the gathering
of knowledge and wisdom to see
him into old age. A child that one
day should look back on its youth with
pleasure and remember it fondly.
Instead, that adult child, who
could be me or anyone else on this
Earth, will only recall the day when
it started to rain. A downpour
foretelling, with the certainty of
night following day, that the end
of the world is nigh. It'll be too late
then for Man to change his ways;
to make amends for the damage he
has done unto the land, sea and air.
His greed and mindlessness is the ruin
of everything Nature once held dear.
© Carola Huttmann, 01 April 2022
