why the leaves have opted for autumn

Has any country not had a heatwave this summer?? A drought for the history books in 2022.

I was shocked when I saw the city trees
In mid-June with their leaves on the ground.
Branches swaying half naked,
Abused and confused by the heat.
Mid-summer leaves should be green, soft 
Swaying in the breeze,
Stretching up to some rich guy's loft.
But this summer’s leaves are brown and singed
Flying above the street in the wind.
The leaves are losing their roof!
The scrunch sounds you hear in the hottest of winds
Are no summer spoof
They belong to a heatwave 
That 
Will 
Not 
Budge.

The leaves find shelter on tarmac turned fudge.
Restless, they end up lying in street corners, 
On a glinting bitumen bed  
Made of black stone-like pearls
That I see have begun to bubble and curl
At the hands and feet of a homeless man
Slumped in front of an old shop door.
He lies numb on one side in the sun.
His dusty jeans are creased by sweat
While his head and arms roast
His tattooed skin hides the burn well
The beads of sweat that dampen his neck
Help keep him cool
Fast asleep in an urban sprawl.
Every time a bus comes and goes
A propulsion of heat below
Must storm the pavement by his bed, 
God help his head.
His bedroom is the street.
His sheets, made of marble
Were the only cool gift he could find.
The city was being kind!

Tourism is peaking, records are breaking.
Souvenirs are selling in the store
But what is selling more
Are drinks in cold frosted cans.
The shopkeepers stick to their fans,
For now,
Battling the heat from old humming fridges 
But I have also heard
That they’re turning down the power,
The rivers are too hot or too dry
To feed the cooling tower!

So much for nuclear!
You can see it from the funicular
Up on the foot slopes,
Birds begin to sigh
As reservoirs dry
The water level slips. Old secrets flip,
Their cover is blown where no seeds were sewn.

Even if reputations were in tatters, nothing matters.
Holidays are sold on the sky.
They think it’s great the visitors don’t ask why,
Why the leaves have opted for autumn.

The ones who read the local papers 
They eat oysters and capers and keep up with the news,
They’ll read everything that stews
Profits of olive farmers, bricks and mortar...
Now they’re the ones beginning to worry about water
Because the truth is starting to sting,
The fact is, the grass turned gold
Way back in spring,
A fool’s gold, they should have been told.
Back then, the golfing green was financed by loans,
But now it feels like we're getting down to the bones
And I’m left wondering
Who can live off love and stones?

Oh, I wish they would study the stats!
I can imagine soon they’ll ration the water in the taps
Because someone will be forced to blow the whistle,
If all we get is drizzle, 
Won’t they? 
When the tourists don’t like the stain
They’ll be looking who to blame, 
Won’t they?

But I can't talk!
All I do is sit here, like a lemon
With nothing but a sermon,
A passenger.
Pathetic. 

Who'll be the messenger?
Who can rewrite the whole darn book?
To show us drought resistant food to cook,
Someone with a vision
Someone on a mission.
Oh, I hope everyone’s gonna stop and listen
Before the trees go missing.

sun bleached grass @naturetorque