Note to a Reader 30 Years Hence

In 2050, if a habitable planet still exists,
I picture a poet sifting through whatever archives
have been preserved.
Perhaps she will stumble across Real Toads,
and read the poems we have written
that have chronicled our time here:
our laughter, our tears, our outrage, our protest,
our love and concern for the planet
as it careens through space with
fires and flooding, hurricanes, typhoons,
climate refugees, both human and wild,
fleeing the flames and waters of our legacy:
our stubborn  refusal to
put planetary survival before
power, greed and excess.

I can see her eyebrows lifting in shock and disbelief,
as mine do almost every day.
The signs are so clear, the information so urgent.
Leaders wilfully deny the decisions
that need to be made.
The choice of power and profit
over the survival of billions,
that we record today,
along with our angst, our grief, our frustration,
may one day (hopefully) be read by
whoever survives the maelstrom
that lies between now and then

Poets are the canaries in the cage: our protest song
rings out to those both far and near.
To Tomorrow we say:
we sang it loud and clear.
Future generations will be the only ones to know:
did anybody 
- anybody?? -
hear?


for Kerry's prompt at Real Toads:  Metamodernism : how poets record the history and culture of our times. That we do, and the present times give us a ton of material. Today, in the British Columbia Legislature, a historic bill is being passed recognizing the inherent rights of the indigenous people, as set forth by the U.N. B.C. is the first province to do so. It is a good day. But also shameful that those rights took hundreds of years to be acknowledged, after a painful history. Better late than never. But, oh my! First Nations have been patient.