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Sandy Rapp
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Ill, the Winds
None can say how long it takes, but sure it's in the wind.
Immunity is down and it depends on where you've been.
The stacks of the reactors and the Frankenfields are near.
And a troubled rain is fallin' in the farmlands year to year.
Only fifty years ago, on east and western shore.
Those who're one in nine today were one in twenty-four.
The farms are fried in pesticides, and 'neath a brave new sun;
Another greenwood's been and afore the day is done.
On the fine long summer days, Ill, The Winds are blowin'
Gone the fishes all away; brown tide's in the bay.
Gone the sons to guns and AIDS; one in nine the daughters.
The corn is high; the plant's on line;
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It's a hell of a way to boil water.
Half a million species gone; Ill The Winds that got 'em.
Now the list is three miles long, a millstone round the world.
The timber falls, the fire calls, the hunter's gun has shot 'em.
And there's no haven in the brook from shore to steaming shore.
Ghosts of summers, come and gone, grow the grasses green.
But the green fee's paid anon, in fallen field and stream.
Now the war is rollin' and Chernobyl's on the breeze,
And it's past the time to keep the fire in other hearths than these.
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