What if the Rain had not come?

What if the rain had not come

like Ethiopia, Kenya, Somalia too

desertification, dying animals,

crying children, folk emaciated,

and still the silent sun shines on

drying, heating, carbon fuelled.


What if the rain had not come?

The reservoirs emptying still

and the cracks in the ground

widening and spreading like 

a pain of ball broken glass.


What would the farmers do?

Each of them grimly eying

rising dust from dying fields

of withering winter fodder

and apples in leafless orchards, 

so many, so small, stoney bitter. 


What would the government do

watching the golden corn die,

a poor harvest of little potatoes,

no strawberries for their tables

beef cattle dying on the farms,

struggling sheep in shipons?


It will come. Will we be ready?

Irrigation ’n wells in our nation?

Or land turning into deserts in

waterless valleys, birdless hills

cos corporate greed wins again

destroying lives of those who 





Budgets Kill

Blue eyes sunk in a worried face,

dim with the ache of hunger,

closing to hide the horror of

cruelty in power and control.


Brown ones too in the faces

of children understanding 

that they are voiceless and

that loving adults voted for


this annihilation, bold policies

that take their food, warmth,

their schools, jobs and hope

and create fat cats, and pigs


that grunt and snuffle in the

decaying detritus of their 

lost lives,  painting with

their blood an enthralling


idyllic picture of a trickling

stream of quickening money 

but block it, subvert it, to sell 

the oppressed for a fevered


obsession with giving money, 

and more money, and misery 

money, for fancy, future jobs 

to their backers and bankers;


who invite them to parties where

the poor are absent, the climate

crisis is chalked over and the

opposition groans and fights


each other, while the despot

in Number 10 has easy days,

creating her queenly kingdom

where only the elite live well. 

Truss the Tory way.

The butterfly spread its wings,

as the sun rose late,

the scent of honeysuckle fills the air

on Michaelmas tide,

alighting to drink the sweet nectar it floats in my sight,

chilling my heart as the Autumn’s reign’s diminished.


Swallows and sparrows soar and chat as their

nestlings feed on the whining insects,

while others die of thirst and homelessness.


Small fruits hang on leafless trees ready for harvest,

miniature wheat and barley – barely usable,

and so the humble loaf, priced high will shrink

from the tables of the destitute and hardworking.


Across the burned hills, brown spreads like an ink blot,

til the green and pleasant land is gone.

Rivers barely move on their sluggish journey

to the plastic polluted seas and fish lay dead

on the bare, crumbling banks.


The crisis grows, our greedy government knows,

but still it sows its fracking carbon woes,

madness, insanity prevails, eager to stow honour and

creating rows of zeroes for the richly clad,

and for the poor, voiceless and wise shows

contempt even as they suffer and die.

Climate Crisis Floods

The water soaked into the earth, cooling its parched throat,

dripping through the crooked cracks and pooling in the 

deep, dry depths of the soil which drank it like a sot.

The clouds hovered nearer and more rain poured down,

filling the rivers, the holes and still more and some more.

The people watched it rise, unbelieving the speed; and

fear driven creatures and humans ran to the hills.

Even there, the water came running in rivulets, streams 

and then in full flood and washed away the living and

the dead into the mud streaked death trap of a deluge

of biblical proportions, but no one had an strong ark

and so eyes bleared by tears and sleeplessness saw

their lives taken by a maelstrom and eaten in moments.


Still the creatures ran and tried to swim away from the

gaping jaws of the flooding monsoon as it ground away

the earth, trees n villages disappeared as quickly as the

torrents could engulf them. Soon the small, shivering

children’s screamed, their fears and terrors lost in the

roar of the the angry, rushing, inundating cascade.


Quiet now, dripping water, sluggish streams still carry

the carnage of its crippling attack on the communities

and a contemplating mood comes on those left living

the nightmare of hunger, fear and the black clouds 

that are boiling over the horizon and darkening their

already black nightmare as they cozen rare resources


and wait, eyes dulled, voices muffled for the sounds

of rescue which does not come and their worries

are threatening to overwhelm and depressing their

energy and they sleep fitfully, empty bellies rumbling,

and mothers holding babies, try to feed them from 

empty breasts and fathers search for food in the mud.

Voices are heard and the press has found them, some

chocolate bars to throw over the washout and a word

that they are a few of millions who are in crisis. How

can they be rescued? How can they have hope? How

will they work together to leave their place and enter

the unknown, penniless, grieving, hungry and homeless?

Empty Earth

He stood, sentry like, part of the desertified

landscape, and watched a small cloud

on the horizon, willing the curving shape 

to bring salvation to his people and then

saw it melt away.  The moment gone. Still,

he stood in the shade of the hostile sun.


She watched the food plants lovingly sown

shoot to life and then shrivel, becoming dust,

and still she watched to see in the distance 

a sign, any sign of the black boiling clouds 

that amass and spill, washing away the fear

of another month or year stealing their hope.


They too watched black clouds turn away,

and another day comes and goes and still

the rain, promised by a weatherman  fails

to arrive. Instead, a few drops that dry before

a thirsty land can feel its moisture, then still

more days and clouds break their promises.


and hope shrivels like the desiccated roots.

Every morning they look out at the barrenness,

cheered by a cloud or two, too soon dissipated,

depression returns and tears are the only wet

as the green landscape has been seared by

a drought and for the first time they feel


the true aching for teeming rain for weeks,

and to understand another’s need is not 

just for a storm to bring back the grass but 

to feed their weakened children, who are

sufferers of the injustice of the changing

nature of climate absorbing killing carbon.

Empty plates

Once upon a time we jingled the coins in a pocket,

a loss of magnitude that cannot simply be realised,

half crowns and shillings, sixpence and pence. So

rich we felt with half a crown and even a sixpence

to buy sweets at the shop on the corner of our busy,

children in the road playing, gossiping, caring street.


One lost their job, and the neighbours gave of their

just coping, and felt the pain of the hungry and sad.

Now its a card in the wallet, the dour street divided

and the out of work numbers rising so that no cash

on hand to help another, not a spare meter token,

and find friends at the frantic, empty food banks.


He stared at the mighty banquets of the opulent 

as Oliver watched them as he ate his grim gruel.

So we seek change by becoming audacious agents  

of a new way to see and be in our land, where self-

centred politicians have wired us to be self-seeking

and survival of the wealthiest is their awful aim. 


Jesus spoke into this direst of situations with sense,

give banquets for the poor, the crippled and the lame,

not the groaning tables of the grand and thriving rich,

but he calls us again see the erosion of the way of

daily lives, community and making life impossible

by the sly, Conservative party’s destructive ruling.

Do they even care?

Sewage on our beaches

government beyond our reaches,

history did not teach us

and now they cling like leeches,


feeding off the poor, 

slamming shut the door,

hunger comes with a roar

and they say they’re sticking to the law.

Crisis costs will rise, 

Will they hear the dying sighs?

Will they finally raise their eyes?

And free them from wealthy ties.


Money goes into their coffers,

and kindness will make offers

of tins, beans, tea against the scoffers

and cars driven by chauffeurs.


Shivering inside from all ills,

chemist can’t get the right pills.

Climate crisis worsens and kills.

Who can save us from their selfish wills?

Poverty and Wealth 2022 style

Gaunt faces, Belsen like, shivering in Oxam coats 

and parcels of food in Red Cross Boxes,

schools struggling to open, free dinners lost

and hospitals stretched, homes wrecked and

breaking, while the MPs and corporations 


counting their profits and refusing to see

the results of rabid greed and sleep easy 

in their clean warm beds.

The Tory Party’s .

small print!


Its in the small print that we are not allowed

to see.

Its written large in their minds that we will not

be free.

Its in their meetings, their words and thrills

and the meaning is hid in their lying deceit.


Not one has been told but they guess that

it is.

They cannot believe that’s clearly considered

to be

and yet they meet in secret in pubs, remotely

located, with Russians betraying their flock.


The poor are now poorer and the rich count

their glee,

The food banks are closing for a serious lack

of food.

Trust Truss or Rishi, they say, but we all know 


their trust is in mammon for themselves and



Seaside Fun

Dancing sunlit waves, gleeful children,

reddened cheeks, glowing with joy under

a layer of factor 50, to fight off the furious

sun searching out each little corner of skin

uncovered; and so they dress them now

with protecting suits or pop up tents that 

shield, and enable freedom on the beach;

to dig and build, shape and fill buckets, to

make sandcastles that stretch across the 


thinking to stop the tide. and ride the ripples

in the welcoming ambling sea on its quiet, 

soulful days. But, they love too the tossing 

roaring waters that build and splash and 

challenge, that thrill and lift and tumble,

and each one to be met by crazy courage, 

over and over as they wait for the really big

one, that will toss them in the surging surf.

Hiccoughing and laughing, they face again

the cold waters and splash and scream ’til

the call comes to go back, and suddenly 

they are cold and shivering and struggling

with wet clothes and sandy feet that scrape,

warm, dry clothes bringing cheer, and 

tears are dried as they homeward trek to

hot drinks, restorative snacks and hot 

showers leaving gritty sand as they go to

a place to sit, relax, read and slow down.