By Rhys Hughes
Every year the storms
are far more powerful
and more frequent too
on this island of mine.
The roof of my house
was blown away only
yesterday and my wife
and neighbour just now.
.
I watch through an old
astronomical telescope
as the receding forms of
those sadly supple fliers
dwindle like an eloping
couple, yet the residual
hope in my despondent
heart is still swindled by
climate change deniers.
.
(Liars who sold their
souls to the diabolical
buyers of rotten goods
and wallow in the mire.)
.
My dog, my cat and my
bathroom mat, and also
my geometric lawns, all
are gone thanks to those
violent winds, and even
words I hoarded to use
in this poem have been
blown away. You may
find them at the end of
this verse, all forlornly
disordered as follows…
.
wet
cold exposed
without a home useless
fruitless rootless and doomed
cocooned boiling floods
mudslides in our
eyes
.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
.
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