Where Land is Rare

I stood on the cliffs and looked out to blue, blue sea,

the bobbing boats with lines and nets in the bounty.


An innocence spread out on the tortured ruins below

the rippling waves where we came too    late, too       slow. 

Heard the bells of the churches and cathedrals calling

‘neath the waves in sadness and sorrow and raw regret.

I heard the bells of bicycles and front doors and a sound

of the clocks, that ticked away the rising waters of ice

melt, as the sun’s strength grew, and indecisive leaders

tried, and Canute like, failed to turn the trespassing tide.

I watched folk, weighed down with a silvery, fish catch,

as they carried their boxes up the fresh cut, cliff steps.

I laid a hand on my swelling tide of my own and felt

the hoped for baby tumbling beneath my trembling hands.

The heat of the sun bore down on us both and I turned

to return to the city, with its ancient walls, where windows

looked once on rolling fields; now upon rising tumbling waves.

An ancient settlement. Where fish are plenty but land is rare.

A Letter to Santa

I’ve written my letter and sent you my note,

he’s bound to see just what I wrote,

its not a lot but I’m sure he’ll see

that all these things are not for me.


Dear Santa, please may I have a big box

of peace, homes and hope along with my socks,

a jigsaw of food for all empty hands,

and drinking water in all of the lands.


Please will you take those who harm kids,

and put them in crates with very heavy lids,

and all those leaders who are pow! power mad

please, stop them because they are so very bad.


Please, stop climate change injustice,

regrow trillions of trees and lots of ice

help all people everywhere to finally see

that plastic does not belong in the seething sea.


Please Santa, we are so very very stuck,

and we turn all God’s beauty into muck.

I am afraid that everything is going to pot,

please, please,

place in my stocking all of this lot.

Spring Death

The sun caught the shy violet, shedding

light on them, as they appeared like 

sapphires in the grass and gorse and

gave joy to the slow journeying.


They smiled at the swift, flying swallow

retuned to a cold and frightened land,

as it dipped and darted, diving for flies

while the fearing folk stayed in doors.


Slowly the spears of azure and pink

unfurled their bells and rang out for

the first Spring in history where nature

is free to frolic, and flower and fly.


Indoors the tears run liberally down

the faces of the grieving, gathered 

alone or on a screen,

where silently

they show shock

and sadness of their


losses. In hospital no one journeys

alone to death,

the NHS sees that they are comforted

but others wait at home, solitary,

silently, wanting December back again.

Mother Earth

Her vital blood vessels,  congested

with synthetic carbons and an aortic

aneurism of melting ice issuing

and spilling over a splashed land.


Her joints, arthritic and stiffened

by politicians feasting on fine minerals.

Muscles, fatigued by black, oil soaked 

economies, shunning the light.


Growth glands and physiology polluted 

by toxins derived from fertilisers,

foul exhalations, exhausts and ash

from fires fanning the flames of fools.


Swollen and calcified, the heart

beats slower and irregularly, as

the plasma bloats with micro plastics, 

its chambers flooded with the blood


of bodies, distorted with self deception

and the lungs gutted by greed,

and they shrink and shrivel lost to,

pulmonary fibrosis of palm oils,


until mother earth can not sustain