The Drought

Of course, two thousand and fourteen was the year
That the Drought began. At first we were even glad:
The sun, no rain, no floods. My children loved the sun.
We knew it could not last. But it did.
There were jokes, then the joking died away.

It was the livestock first, sheep and cows.
Wildlife, well you saw the birds spattered on the ground.
The crops failed. The trees were the very last to die.
At first there were the stories in the news.
Sad tales. The very young and very old,
Then the not so young and not so old,
Then just the numbers given until those too
Were suppressed. The scientists explained
The causes of the Drought. On a map.
It is always afterwards they talk to us.
They built plants to get water from the sea.
Too little. Much too late.

Laws were passed. Rations too. Neighbours
Found a woman giving water to her horse.
They killed the horse and hanged her
From a branch. There are no horses now.
I am told a few dogs. Perhaps cats. Running wild.
We thought there would be help
Or at least passage out. It seems
We are not quite so well liked as we thought.
Others had their ills. What help there was
Went to Ireland. Not England. Though I do not know
What the Irish ever did for the world.
There were less of them I guess. Then.
Well, then. Then it was too late.

These days there are fifty shades of brown.
Dust storms blow for days, blocking out the sun.
Some of us survived. I was lucky. I suppose. Others,
Friends, family were not. I would love to see
John, Judy or Eglantine. It is my children
That I miss the most. Engines take water from the sea.
Artesian wells. But each year machines break down,
The levels drop and wells run dry. What water
We have is for the crops and our masters' lawns.
We are owned now by those who can make it work
Wringing water from sea and land. None
For useless mouths. Though now precious few of those.

What hurts me most is that awful dry rasping in my throat
That stays however much I drink. I suppose
It could perhaps have been worse.
It could have been the Plague.