Bay of scars
My Grandmother arrived in a faraway land encaved by green hills and a mass of water. She lingered around penguins and lambs, and huddled through floods.
The eye of the clouds wailed out, swirling the sky, dropping fragments. Sometimes it snowed or rained, but the storms always came… until they didn't.
When the storms gave up, drought vaporised the ground.
Beg the eye to cry, to renew life again.
The sheep searched for sustenance, and seals lay in a torpid state.
And then the rain again, catching the residents unaware, clawing at the land with all the weather’s fury, shaking the inhabitants and ruining their dwelling places.
Despite the weather, my Grandmother did not flee: she warded the kingdom of animals and showered them with aid.
But this new sanctuary had already started to melt from the fiery gaze of the warming seas. Man's greed burned bright, lunging fire to the grass and trees. The fish hid deeper, and the birds starved. The white flippered sentinels grew weaker as the banks burned.
The environment’s thermostat tried to right the global inferno; tears leaked and flowed down the warm air. The intent was to wash the land of its flame, but it only became a component of the devastation: giving in to the overwhelming fury of the past. It was the body of water sent to wipe us out from all our selfishness. We were the reason the scalding seas existed.
The surge slashed the hills, sliced the earth, and carved the streams: the veins of the obliteration. Crumbs of the pudding hills bashed the dirt, pathways consumed.
Bay of Scars. You could stitch the wounds, but the deluge would tear them open.
And what of the future? The road will sit in the sea's belly, but it won’t be enough to appease the ocean. Will Grandma be able to face the turbulent times alone?