Overgrown Poem by Mary Champion

The dying, shrivelled grass longs for the rain
but cloudless skies can offer no respite.
Its parched roots search for moisture - all in vain,
no remedy on hand to ease its plight.
Relentless heat beats down throughout the day,
remorseless sun from which there is no shade.
The cracking crumbling soil now falls away
much like some agéd fabric, worn and frayed.
A vagrant spark from somewhere starts the fire,
soon threatening the houses built close by,
whose occupants flee from the growing pyre.
At last, too late, they think to question why.

This rampant human tumour is too vast -
our canc'rous growth proves terminal at last.


PS
Like the magic porridge pot
we did not know we had to stop.
Just mindlessly obeyed that guy
who said, go forth and multiply.