DRY SEASON

It is the season of the harvest

when a parched land

is forsaken

by heaven and her rain,

the sun a constant squint

above the ancient parchment

of a blue and cloudless sky.

A green leaf briefly

turns gold-

en and then forever

brown but the forest and the tree

lives on, a tiny seed

in the alchemy of the seasons.

What is this fascination with fire?

Immortelle, roble, bloodwood, poui

tree roofs are ablaze,

the forest a burnt offering

to Vulcan or to Mars.

(Better by far, a forest

aflame with flower

than with fire.)

These tall trees burning were once men

or men were once tall trees burning

with faith and fervour

living centuries in Bible days;

hard to believe

in a land of green

and plenty, blessed

with perpetual warmth, a heart

can be so hungry, so empty, so naked,

so gaunt

but heart is a witness

that never lies.

Here, amidst harsh

beauty of tinder-brittle forest floor

and river beds of dwindling water,

there is a thirst,

a bitter dryness

of the mouth and throat,

a thirst for truth

and right that will not

be slaked or sated

or placated

by cosmetic

rhetoric

or tainted platitudes.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance