This Time, It’s Far Too Late

A misty dawn to greet the day, no sight
of brutal heat – but heat will come as day
draws on, the signs forlorn for fears allay
as ever was the loathsome way by blight
of mankind’s calumny. We alone did light
the fires, felled the trees in a grand parlay,
gamed at dice on a losers stake gainsay
and lost the pot; the thief of time delights
our plight, he stands aloof, ignores debate,
cogitates our certain fate, sees us leave
the promised land a-feared and intestate –
a-pleasured by our parlous state bereaved,
while we demur, digress, pontificate
in fear – and learn, this time, it’s far too late.
© 10 October 2007, I. D. Carswell