The Cycle Poem by Robert Dummett

Not far away
Trees run the sun-burnt hills;
And the sun sweeps
Through remaining frills.
The humming bird
In forward and reverse
Seeks nectar from scorched flowers
With a whirring curse.
From the very foliage,
No distance to the eye,
Steals the stretching odour
Of mangoes far on high.
A stone flicks from a sling shot
And clips the bity fruit,
And a little voice in triumph wail:
'I got the bloody brute.'
So often in a day,
In this oil-tropic isle,
the sun in changing wickedness
Gives the evil eye.
Sered leaves then leave their trees
With a crackling sigh.
And we of many suns and moons
Soon follow in reply.
is this all there... for man:
To multiply and die?