A Poem by Patrick MacLeod Cullen
We live at the beginning of the end,
my friends and peers and I,
our children and our parents with us,
looking into the future of a burning world,
our pockets empty and our souls alight.
Our dreams of our future echo each others',
in a strange, broken hall-of-mirrors,
with cottages and cabins and huts and homes,
gardens and allotments and cupboards full of food,
dogs and cats and goats and chickens in our minds.
Few are our dreams of riches beyond compare,
or fame, or even acts of heroism and glory,
rather, now, as Tasmania burns and America freezes,
as storms grow and grow, as the deserts expand,
and the billionaires gold-plate their pizzas...
...for us, our dreams are of nights by a fire,
a place to live, and be free, work that sustains our spirit,
and loving company, to share the grief and joy,
to hold close as the water rises and horror creeps ever closer,
bringing the desperate and the frantic and the dead. ■