Climate, Change.

Here, and hear how their footsteps trip trap

in echoes, a tattoo in one of those forgotten

places, where trolls would not thrive.

Beneath this bridge, slug trails slime brighter

on a sodden sleeping bag in the rhythmic

swing of searchlight than urgent dayglow,

shrieked in wall-scriven prophesies of rising water;

She was someone’s Daughter,

exposed, under a starless arc, one thin wrist

mapped by shrunken veins, the same as me or you,

her life’s journey retold in stillness, foretold

by indifference of those whose skies are blue.

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Edit 23.10.22