Image by Vitaly Taranov on Unsplash
Final Payment
Bees hum and die in brambles, hidden from our sight,
and scrawled across the sky, untethered in their flight,
are birds swept by a tempest, urged on by its blast,
as down below, the earth cracks, and our future’s cast
in hurricanes and fires and climate change so vast
that mankind’s ancient rituals no longer work their magic.
Our cut-down trampled forestlands foretell a future tragic.
We leap ahead to our own end, speed it on its way,
waiting for that reckoning for which we’ll have to pay.
For The Sunday Whirl the prompt words are: trample crack swept untethered hum urge scrawled bees sky ritual leap brambles
Wow! An excellent poem composed out of the wordle.
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Thanks, Sadje. Some tricky ones this time, huh?
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Oh yes, but you have done a great job of it
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Oh wow, excellent and it says so much to us~! That one should be published~!
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Brilliant warning.
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I do wish it wasn’t so but the signs are all bad.
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