Memories
In years to come
when my bones are brittle
but my memories clear,
I don’t want to be the last one
who remembers blue skiesIn years to come
when my heart beats slowly
but my memories are crisp,
I don’t want to be the last one
who witnessed the wild,
before we eliminated all
the animals and birdsThe majestic, myopic rhino;
the elephant, whose memory
will outlast mine;
the fat galah waddling pink
across my lawn, strutting
its own importance to
a watching cockatoo;
the bee now replaced
by a pollinating drone
because politicians
thought humans had
dominion over EarthIn years to come
when the ice has melted
from our consuming hearts,
I don’t want to be the one
who remembers
we did nothing.
© Tanya Southey
#52words52weeks
#monthlymusing
