Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

Beware the ice of March Might sliding slip; Beware the hours of April’s Windy showers; Beware the flowers of May, Ice marching over Frozen t-Ides. Written with thanks for the weather, cold or warm

Tadpoles swam happily into the jar. A big eye floated in the world outside and tadpoles waved their arms. Eye’s like the sun, they thought. And sunshine’s good. Frogs hopped happily into the tank where water bubbled and roiled. And boiled. Global warming; not the fault of man, thought frogs.

Like kings crowned with wisdom, irrelevant degrees held as scepters under their arms, naysayers fill their words with ink-spilled blood, telling all what to think. Newspaper prints what’s heard, what sells, till reader, thinking stilled, believes what the writing tells… till acid rain destroys again, and warming births its pain.

There’s a noise outside. Blue jays are fighting again, and a squirrel joins in, shouting abuse from its corner of the ring. Trees bends their branches to listen with the memories of centuries weighing their thoughts. Bright flowers, baby upstarts, laugh. And a human intruder looks out through the living-room window. There’s more flowers because of the rain. There’s more birds, so they’re fighting again. There’s more sun, and the trees’ weary branches are showing the strain. Fall comes early this year bringing leaves tinged with yellow too soon. Meanwhile the human intruders ignore the dark elephant warming the room.

“I've seen the light,” said Jen. Mike looked up, his knees crunched under the desk, arms hugging the wall. “I thought I asked you to switch it off.” “Yeah, but you’ve not seen...” “Don’t want to neither.” Rain dripped, sea-water sipping the shore. Their dead tree melted in the heat. “It’s beautiful Mike.” “I’m sure it is, but the world was beautiful too, once upon a time.” “So what?” asked Jen. “So turn off the light and save some energy. Maybe one day the world’ll be lovely again.” “Like me?” Mike hugged her tight and they turned out the light.

At the start of the dream we overflew a shining white-washed world. It was that winter of 09, the Big Freeze when cynics still thought exceptions overruled investigation—no warming ‘cause it’s cold; no science—someone cheated; no global ’cause local’s what’s seen. Dutch wept as water-levels rose, time passing, science amassing too much of what no-one had listened to before. The ocean’s maw gaped wider, swallowing all in unfathomable blue and the burning sun came out. At the end of the dream we landed on Ararat, made sacrifice of animals from the ark, sang long hallelujahs, and started over.