The dwindled dinosaurs, once lords, now birds,
lively on twigs
and the meaty creatures, tame and untame,
what do they make of us – dangerous monkeys –
we, the outrageous brainy breed,
draped in borrowed skin?
Foolish and stubborn we dig up meadows
where the rainbow bends,
while the other end sings,
mad as a music box.
The clouds gasp to see our folly
and long to drown the whole wide world to start again.
The time comes when the very petals tremble at our step
reverting to buds
and stems shrink to join the writhe of roots below soil.
Sensible animals would do well to hide
pock-marked by bullet-strike
while trees learn to march on seas to quench
fish and corals perish,
and busy insects know nothing of this,
only that their numbers are less than before
and we, so much the more,
the exactitude of assassination
by all eating species disturbed by us,
we, the golden, chosen ones.
All this I contemplate from my dream chair
in which I rock and sit and rock,
crunching roaches with its cunning curve.
Clive Donovan devotes himself full-time to poetry and has published in a wide variety of magazines including The Journal, Agenda, Acumen, Poetry Salzburg Review, Prole, Stand and The Transnational. He lives in the creative atmosphere of Totnes in Devon, U.K. often walking along the River Dart for inspiration. He is hoping to entice a publisher to print a first collection.