By Bethan Freeman
A sickly mist stands meekly in limbo above the scorched land
Differing influences meeting each other, a direct conjunction
Will the force of what is supposed to be
endow the vegetation with what it needs?
Will it continue to smoulder or will the sky unfold
Tumbling drops of a pipe dream
Reaching the earth and converting to tear shaped flames
Which we suck gladly through a white, small fingerbone-sized consolidation
Taking it down deep, Cancer sticks and stones
To live so impetuously, and never take a chance
On your pipe dream ?
Influence is stacked up against walls and on shelves
Perhaps the rainstorm won’t be enough to
Reintroduce the emerald plains and high grounds
A feeling of relief knowing that leastways,
The small corner of the sphere
Imprinted with my footprints like tyre tracks
Could ensue a viridescent hereafter.