‘Until the lion learns to speak
the tales of hunting will be weak’;
except we hear the tears we choose,
prefer the cheers of mighty man.
With wealth of few, power of the clique,
astride a carcase regarded chic;
old tribal spears now crosshair lens,
they swig with peers their beers of froth.
The funding, world wildlife is bleak,
those greening earth arouse their pique;
their jeers mount up as sneer at voice,
protestors ‘merely smearing fools’.
As power portrays those meek as freak,
of ‘leftist radicals’, their shriek;
our fears that seers will be deposed,
ears, tongues cut, trophies, planet lost.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Poetry Potion. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com