In 2006 I had the privilege of visiting the mountain gorillas in Uganda, one of the last remaining troops in the wild. I was particularly moved by the sound they made. This poem is a comment  not only on the senseless wars that are decimating the lives of the animals and humans in this area and the DRC, but also on the cynical exploitation of these conflicts by mining and logging companies.
Picture
© Bridget Pitt - no reproduction without permission
The Gorilla’s Song

 
The gorilla does not speak
She sings
A creaking song of lowing grief
Of membranes ripped by metal teeth
Of crashing trees with flailing roots
Of tender shoots on earth’s bruised face
Trampled down by muddied boots

The gorilla does not speak
She sings
A groaning song of futile strife
Of the carrion call of warlord troops
Of the ones who turn their backs on life
And burn the grass beneath their feet
Then whimper at its searing heat

The gorilla does not speak
She sings
A murmuring song of falling light
Of thudding bodies, wrenched from trees
of severed black gorilla hands
that blood-soaked in a bucket lie
Raised to mute unheeding skies

The gorilla does not speak
She sings
A lone lament of keening loss
Of forests razed, of children damned
The last rays of the dying green
That gild our memories as we yield
And sink beneath grey tides of greed

© Bridget Pitt

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