Empty Swing Swings
Listen to poem:
The empty swing
swings gently
in the gentle
breeze that wafts
across the empty
playground park.
The dust in the foot-pans
beneath the swings
lifts up in the breeze,
swirls and curls in
a spiral willy-nilly, willy-willy.
The town has all but died.
A tardy few die-hard's remain,
as they have no where else to go.
The salty groundwater,
which rose up in the soil
due to over zealous irrigation,
scalded the landscape and sucked
the life out of everything alive.
Even the birds and bees departed
as the vegetation was parched to
dry, shriveled brown, littering
the stark parched brown earth,
dotted with snow white blotches
and scabby scolds.
The residents were given fair warning.
They failed to heed the tell-tale signs
and reduce their wasteful
excessive irrigation,
as the salty water rose.
The call to change was such an irritation.
Like everyone, everywhere,
the people here, only took up a tardy reaction
when it was too late,
or almost too late,
which blind fate swung to
far, far too late.
Their fate was sealed.
This time the gauge
had swung far right down
to empty.
Copyright © John Anderson | Year Posted 2023
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