The Last Trace - July 1 2023

 

The Last Trace

July 1 2023

There is no standing water.

The parched earth

soaking up

what little rain we've had.

The lake lies stagnant

under high summer sun,

listless fish

in soupy water

where toxic algae thrives,

a scummy bloom

that turns it reddish brown.

Grass wilts

rocks bake

trees droop,

dusty leaves

a tired pale green.

And I think only of escape;

indoors

or further north,

even winter

in the fullness of time.

They speak of a “new normal”,

but this

will never feel right.

Meanwhile, the well has run dry.

We once went to war

over gold, ambition, pride;

but now

it will be fighting for shade

or the cool heights,

the last trace of water.

We will be wary as gazelles

at the riverside

bowing our heads to drink.

Skittish creatures

on nimble legs

who are always on edge,

playing the odds

while tempting fate.

And the crocodiles,

who survived the dinosaurs,

and will likely as not

outlast us all.

Prehistoric creatures

with armoured skin, unblinking eyes,

lurking

barely submerged

ready to strike;

heat-seeking missiles

lunging from the depths.