Poem London

Whilst still his charter’d Thames does flow, Its source is miles from where it’d been. Like Birnham wood, it’s slowly rolling, Man forsaking, back to the sea.

Our tears are dry, as too the soil, As summers lengthen, slow to turn To autumn. Crops, though, are quick to spoil As here in London buildings burn.

What do we do as our world labours, Ice sheets melt and sea levels rise? We build our walls, and war our neighbours, To nature’s warnings avert our eyes.

Now is the time for adaptation, New values as we face new trials: Resilience, relinquishment, restoration, As to the world’s new charter we reconcile.

B y M a i t i u B r a l l i g h a n ‘ 2 2