by Gordon Gilbert
I dreamed last night of seasons of unrest that lie ahead:
Saddled on nightmare steeds with fiery nostrils,
eyes of cold blue light and blood pouring down their heaving flanks,
apocalyptic horsemen rode over our lands,
setting farms and fields ablaze and poisoning the wells;
pestilence, drought and famine followed in their wake.
Monstrous firestorms swept across tinder-dry forests,
consuming all, obliterating every living thing in their path;
whirlwinds that followed gathered up the dust and ash
and blotted out the sun.
Insufferable desert heat by day,
unbearable desert cold by night.
All of our tomorrows,
only the broken promises
of those who too long led us in denial.
All of our future days,
each and every one in turn,
fading away into a long parade
of sad and sorry yesterdays.
This morning I awoke to the radio:
The meteorologist was saying
it’s unseasonably warm for this time of year,
and the temperature is rising.
Long-time NYC west villager Gordon Gilbert has found solace and inspiration during the pandemic in walks along the Hudson River, photographing and writing about the wildlife, flora, and river traffic as the seasons change. It gives him hope in these terrible times, but he knows that is not enough. Change only comes when we act to make it so.
