Creation groans.

The bounteous skin of the earth corrupted,

its bones break through, bleaching in the sun-

light, which beats on the dust blown surfaces

taking from it life and burning into it death.


An owl flies through the ruins where the gaunt,

parched desert yields it no life and so it falls,

scattering its atoms into a hungry landscape,

where nothing can stay the terrible tragedy.


Where it meets sea – the salt encrusted rocks

are battered by ravening waters and strewn

with the plastic detritus of human wastefulness,

its anger beats each stroke of crashing waves,


together they cry out for justice and mercy but

many people huddle and mutter, they grumble 

and look at the encroaching briny, the storm

broken homes and the violent viruses, which


their selfishness has released by condemning

the oak and the redwood, hazel and ebony; 

replacing them with concrete, cattle and city

slickers blinded to the call of the creation.


The earth groans and calls, spits flames, and

burns paths through human made jungles ’til

the air is filled with its call – that folk will hear

and relent of their evil and work with nature for 





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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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