Solid Ground
Feb 23 2008


You become complacent
living underneath a volcano;
its gentle slope,
its fertile soil,
its dense green foliage.

Occasionally, the ground shudders.
Sometimes sulphurous steam erupts,
and curls of toxic smoke
rise-up from the blasted caldera,
its charred rim off-limits.
You glance up
reassured that underground, the fire-god still simmers,
content for now.

Entire lives have passed
under the volcano,
resigned to the awful symmetry of its rule
— blessing us with riches,
then making us pay with blood and treasure;
the fickle pleasure
of an immature god.

There are dormant volcanoes everywhere
— acts of faith and appeasement;
the zero-sum games we play;
and the risks we take
for love and comfort.

But it’s so pleasant living here
in this verdant jungle where everything grows.
Where succulent fruit hangs from low-lying branches,
plucked redolent and ruby red
and tempting us to bite.
Or where, left to ripen
the first gentle tremor shakes them off;
filling the air with sweetness
— the sickly scent
of rot.