That was the summer in which I died,
And the trouble was… we had time to decide,
I offered you everything, you took it all.

You spoiled a land,
I recoiled from existence,
And though the fig fruited, I bore nothing.

You insisted on expansion… onwards, upwards
Forever exploiting all you find,
If this is progress, simply leave me behind.
Your limitless consumption led to this, piles of spent energy,
Sapped from loins and limbs, trials in territories,
Soaring skies and haunting lies.

Bent and broken, I gave in and it remains unspoken,
You are out of control,
I was trying to reach you, dying to teach you.

You pricked and bit, stung and lit,
You drew blood,
I fell into the fire and then came the flood.

And what did we leave behind?
A mark, a trace, a sign,
Our heavy footprint, scars and tracks.

Stretching out, sketching out, shouting out,
Mark-making, bone-shaking, powdered ash and
ground coal,
Dust, leftovers and remains.

From despair comes hope, from death – life,
The last vestiges, my gift to you is this,
A calm, cool breeze momentarily eases.

A small offering of leaf, a relief from the intensity of
this heat,
Hopeful for what may come – reflection, perfection,
restoration,
Our kin, species reconnecting.

The boar, the bats and birds,
The ants, the roots, the earth,
That was the summer in which I died.