So what do you say to a five-year-old
who’s realised that everything will die?
You fight it, but no matter how you try
you still repeat the lies that you were told.
It was last year in summer, the fields were gold,
etc. Had there been cotton, it would’ve been high.
His frame is retching with the question why.
But soon the old words work and he’s consoled.
And as the clever lies dispelled his fit,
arrived here with great speed, now at his back,
a towering black wave was about to hit.
I held his eye and the wave froze in the air.
He wandered off to play. The watery stack
remained for anyone who had a care.