River run dry

River run dry

I wanted to hear the river of words
that tell the story of the picture
painted in the bright place behind my eyes.

But there in a dead bird
beneath the trees,
dead of the sun,

dead of the dearth, the shrivelling
of the climate we squeeze
and twist in our greedy hands.

There will be no more songs
poured from that throat,
and the painting is flawed.

The river runs somewhere for some,
but its voice is lost to my ears,
like the bird’s singing is lost to my heart.