Two weeks ago the river lost its voice –
The voice of granite hills we knew so well –
And just the gentlest stream flowed down the pass
Beside the quiet weir. Meanwhile snow fell
Across the Atacama desert; ice
Gave way and buried thousands in Nepal;
Rains failed across a thirsty South Sudan.
And I thought how we have amplified the fall’s
Most bitter curse and made ourselves as gods,
Not stewards of this scarred and harrowed earth.
At least the Tavy has resumed its flow –
For now – and we have overcome our dearth,
But what of those for whom the hard, dry land
Yields only thorns, unable to withstand
Catastrophes beyond the wisest plan
Which witness to the fallenness of man?
