Peter Frank Thompson

The budding writer’s play area



8 June 2014


A sunset so brilliant was never seen

except in times so long in the past

that none had arisen who could have been

witness to the splendour of the cosmic blast

whence came the rock from which we crawled.


Once we crawled we grew in numbers

and walked across lands we overthrew

with tools gripped firmly with opposable thumbs

directed by the gift of language we knew

and which captured our visions of self grandeur.


From tree to tent, then manor and castle

we swept aside all impediment to progress,

seduced by dreams, we never thought to ask

who invented the myth and sought to impress

our small minds with the blight of Dominion.


"Go forth and multiply", and surely we did,

until our lands bulged with the ominous

spread of our awful numbers that undid

the glory of our Dominion and saw us push

perilously and mindlessly towards Oblivion.


Our economist luminaries misinterpreted the Smith

who forged a social theory that they turned to myth,

All that mattered was capital and economic growth

which we measured in ignorance without taking note

of the cost of fouled soil, waters and air,

But we kept using more without a care.


Still our numbers grew ever more, every where,

We tore out forests and covered the land in brick

and our rubble and filth befouled sea and air

making species by thousands wretchedly sick.


Flora and fauna disappeared day by day.

Many called out that all could not withstand,

but still our leaders extolled the Economic way

"More people, more growth", was their demand.


Species died or retreated fearing our relentless spread,

but still we continued, self-absorbed in gross hubris.

We continued taking and using ’till the sea was dead,

but still all that mattered was the money of big business.


They told our governments what they could do

and dictated to poor workers what was their lot;

yet some cried out said it was time to say ‘No’,

but with money to make, the powers said ‘Not’.


We poured more poisons into the ground and air

and our politicians replied that they did not care,

for this they called Progress, and the poisoned sod

was the sacrifice demanded by The Economy god.


The land was dying and refused to produce food

sufficient for vast numbers on the crowded planet.

‘Supply less than demand, this is must be good’,

gloated those who turned this into a junket.


But the land finally died and creation began to fail,

and as the globe warmed, chaos replaced seasons;

The rich waved their slogans and money to no avail,

ignorant and too selfish to comprehend the reasons.


As birds fell from the air, monetarists said ‘more growth’;

so far were their perceptions removed from reality,

impenetrable to the consequences of their oath

sworn to The Economy that demanded their fealty.


With their dying breaths they cried to their gods,

‘Why did we deserve this; what did we wrong?’

That only Silence answered, they thought was odd

But on dead ears the Universe would not waste song.


A sunset so brilliant was never seen

except in times so far in the past

when the red dust was not poison

and this time of beauty not the last.


The splendour and colour belies the tale of destruction

and failure to accept the Environment’s instruction,

as I sit and absorb this sunset last.


All are gone, all round the planet

Man, beast, fish and bird,

Sweet memories of beauty past.


For a moment I hear,

a song sweet and clear—

and think ’The last bird’


Silence follows and says,

‘You were given Dominion

and you brought Oblivion!’


And the sweet song stops,

a pure note, the last ever.


And the light fades

on a creature thought Clever.


©2014 Peter Frank Thompson