Earth 2 or 3?

The gleaming metal shone in the sun as it plummeted towards the planet’s verdant surface,

splashing into the bluest of blue seas, it bobbed quietly, rising and falling with the waves.

A gap appears near the top and emerging from the darkness into the light came figures,

each stood shaking on wobbly legs fell into a flimsy inflatable dinghy thrust into the water.


The motor throbbed into life and seeking land flew through the soaking water easily until,

riding up a golden beach the engine silenced the humans within sat enchanted, entranced 

by the myriad birds, their songs and the babble of animals calling from the nearby jungle.

Faces hidden behind helmets. Mouths wide in shock. It’s the wrong place, they whispered.


None of them expected the lush, luxuriant growth, only a desert and a plastic filled sea,

for long ago some came and found the inhospitable climate, deserts and poisoned air.

Turning the faces to the green or the blue their eyes lit up with the abundance of food

for furry creatures as well as birds and at last they breathed in the pure, fresh air.


One of them started to send the message that the earth was pristine, a place for people,

then stopped and propping his device his knee, pondered, paused and then panicked.

Humans will again be bringing their pollution and practices and plunder the resources 

til plastic mounts, privilege outweighs sense and the populace dies from overheating.


A woman, thoughtful and brilliant in her comprehension of the peril for this paradise.

reached down and picking up the receiver, smashed it with a rock, took her own tech

and solemnly, slowly the others saw her point and looking hard at the joyous bounty

nodded,  joined her and then they walked into the depths of the jungle and courageously

let nature 




The Flames of Death

It was beautiful, the newly shooting buds of ancient trees,

those toppled by the terrible storms defiantly greening,

At our feet the carpet of pungent garlic holding its buds

as precious gifts to a foraging folk and here and there

stars of anemones shining in the dim lit ancient path.


We trod on round the scars of fallen rocks, glimpsing

blue sky and rolling waves as they washed the shore, 

relentlessly cleaning the rocks and sand, filling small

coves with tiny shrimps, and cockle shells for the

sustenance of the crying gulls and scuttling crabs.


We rounded the corner and felt the cold wind of

death. All around blackened, tortured branches

crumbled into the blackened earth where the tiny

bodies of creatures lay cremated by human hands,

who’ve abused and raped this gentle, gracious land.


Broken by the sight, smell and disgust for our race,

teary eyes took in the acres of what should be golden

tipped gorse, bluebells coming, and a place where

bees would buzz and butterflies dance. But their 

hiddenness in this brutal affair cost them their lives.


The stench remained with us as we finally passed 

into green and gentle slopes laying atop the cliffs,

called us to pray for Ukraine and others. There, a

beautious land has been stripped and burned. Both

their fruitful futures killed by callousness and greed.


The smoke still hung in the air as we silently pass,

the grim reminder of the disregard for living things.

The blackened soil lives in in our dreams, haunting

our thoughts recalling us to reality that some care

not for creatures, nor climate change carbon stoked




The Hearth of the multitude.

The memorial bench, a seat in the mystery of time,

where I can sit, and my heart swell with the beauty

of the place where he sat and contemplated the view.


The mist far out to sea cooled the sultry spring air,

Silent, eyes closed, no wind and somewhere not far

a bud opened, a tiny deflection of air like a butterfly


which has flown past in a soft, floating, rocking flight,

and there, I listened for an insect crawling between the

grasses and bluebells and wondered why it ever was


thus that humans were blind to the beauty of the tiny,

ephemeral life and deaf to the opening of a rambling

rose, their sense of smell missing the coconutty gorse.


Time will hurry on and this seat will rest many a one,

who will miss, like I have, many tiny signs that we’re

not alone, and we share our lives with a myriad things.


Pulsing hearts and gleaming anthers, populated homes

and glorious, awe inspiring flight of birds and bees

and if we knew would we take consider their cares too?

The Trumpet Call of Spring.

( or Hope Denied)

The saffron centred crocus shone against the dark earth,

petals gently unfolding inviting the invasion of light

and insects tending their pollen, enabling production

of tapestry in grass; and secretly new bulbs grow ready

to bring joy and luminescence to the troubled world.


Floating on the breeze bees hover, seeking the sweet

peppery smell of defiant daffodils, with urgent spears 

they break open frozen soil and as buds burst, golden

flowers wave in the wind, bending, heralding the good 

news of heads heavy with the promise of fruitfulness.


The weeping willow hangs its head, as if shamed, down

on the scattering of purple, white, yellow  and orange 

that look on the swaying slender branches with awe til

the tiny buds of fresh green begin the task of creation,

in a quickening garden, a sweet shadowed lovers bower. 


So soft, so gentle are the woodlands growing and where

green buds burst below carpets of blue and white, as the

campanula carpet battles for ground with the humble garlic,

and mother’s violets cover the banks, peeping at the sun

which is slowly dappled and darkened under the canopy.


Small birds flit and fuss as they collect damp green moss,

and the woodpeckers knock out their staccato rhythm,

or cackle with laughter as they fly through the branches

that wave and greet the coming Spring, jubilantly they

clutch the new nests and cheer on the coupling hawks.


Suddenly life looks good and growing would be better, 

and fulsomely lovely were it not for the bitter twist, of

wars and weather which wrest from the world the many

majestic splendours of its blossoming and blooming,

killing indiscriminately the proliferating gloriousness.


So, rest in bower, beloved, and feel the swift rising of

the sap in the gloom of a grey winter’s dying throes,

feel the gratitude of the butterfly winged flight, holding

the heat of Spring’s happiness in your heart against-

the cold of the hungry engine of division and hatred.

How will they know?

It was the glimpse of a frost iced field, where the

lowly sheep were lazily crunching on crisp grass,

that touched my heart and brought the memories

of chapped cheeks and gloves with holes where

the cold wind whistled and the promise of snow.


Snow that fell in lazy circles tasting of ice cream,

bearing the brunt of blizzards that filled the gullies,

and hedgerows hidden by drifts with holes where

wellington boots had reached the for the ground,

delighted laughter as the snow soaked their socks.


Headlong screaming on a home made wood sled,

that Father Christmas brought, and the thud of 

snowballs against wet coats and the scramble 

to roll the biggest snowman’s torso and the deft

heave of the body and a jaunty carrot nose head.


Faces aglow with the joy of cold hands and a

warm heart, snow knocked off boots in the yard

and coats shaken, and then the sharp pain as the

warmth of home sets blood flowing in the fingers.

The scent of baking potatoes and dumpling stew.


How will our grand children know how to tumble

and grumble in the cold snow as snowballs fly?

The soft sound of walking in snowy landscapes?

The crunch through silent lanes? the cancellation of

school? The sheer joy watching the first flakes fall.


Instead they watch the thermals rising, knowing

that the heat warming, fossil fuels are still burned 

and being brought out to burn their liberty away, for

high temperatures are not for fun or running in frosty 

times. Tears fall because it seems the desire for real




Carbon kills.

With stick thin legs and bellies swollen,

they remembered their playing in grass,

hide and seek around trees and cattle 

beside the flowing watery tracks of 

the recent rain; that washed the earth

and egged on the good, growing grain. 


Rain still falls on someone else’s land,

in a place where fridges are full and 

children are found to be fat, but still

they burn the death ridden fuels to

enable them to career around in cars,

that don’t seem to make them happy.


They frown and furrow their brows as

they eat their fill taking the food from

the mouths through hogging their own

ways. While out in a land somewhere

climate change is killing small children

and the cattle rot on the sandy desert.

For Txia and Greta

She slips through the trees she calls home,

and gathering, her kin hear of far off shores 

and stores of chocolates and fine clothes.

They hear of children calling for a future

and the adults who listen not. They lament

with solemnity the proclivity of the adults

unphased by the climate disaster. And a

love of carbon fuels that duels with the

way that the young and the already 

drowning protest, named pests by the

carbon killing, jet loving, coal digging

fools. Together they touch their trees,

their homes and grieve for their losses.

The Jet Set at COP26.

Bleakly I watched the rain coursing down, as if forcing into

our cold comfort house, where gas is becoming as rare as the

meat on our plated meals, we try to manage for the health

of the earth, for sealed promises for it to become a healed 

place, where each and every child can be wild amidst the 

greenery, flutterings, flowers, birds twittering as they rustle 


in the green hedges singing the triumph of Spring over Winter.

I traced the droplets and watched them coalesce into rills

just as the trickles fall  through the troubled earth, deep

tracks through rocks, until it flows into freshets, streams and 

rivers to the seas; where polyester plasticised natural things 

frolic, forage and play in the plastic bubbles of pollution. 


I’m gobsmacked, gobstopped as I groan at the elite of 

the earth, changing their manners to suit the matters but 

speaking platitudes, bad attitudes more of blah, blah, blah

to the violated, desecrated world – for to listen is to believe,

to believe means motivation to the notion of act, act, act.

‘Its awful,’ they say to the camera,  ‘Action,’ to the activists.


While all the time they carry on with their agenda, their

propaganda, waging war on the poor and destitute and

the deteriorating climate of the delicate blue planet, They

think that their money will be their saviour not a change 

in their behaviour. So, the seas roar nearer, the deserts

are drier, forests are for fire and temperatures are higher.

Cold Hearts

They know it is wrong, the science is clear, but

prefer high profile jobs to turning the tide?

They hang on their hearts, the voices of children,

but hungry oil and coal eats its way into their

homes, hopes, failed harvests and he denies

with sown seeds of power. So, head’s together 

they ignore truth and make vague promises

that are sound bites to eat away more of the

land, the farms, the crops, melting glaciers

but not the ice around their hearts.

It started so well.

Alone, silently, a cell splits on a planet,

cold and bleak, traces of life beginning

fragile, hopeful and a stirring of a sigh.


Then others mutate and movements starts

as the urge to live, to create and to be but 

changes the barren land and sea and sky.

Slowly, creeping, altering organisms are

becoming more complex, and are they

choosing and deciding or has something


moved over the waters, shifting, silently

building a life that wakens and urges to

sounds, and calls, and echoes thrilling


the ocean where the slippery shapes of

finned creatures, loving the watery flow

over their various forms,  swim to and fro.


Standing forms are moving now, taking

over places and building their own place,

ignoring their effects and increasing spoil;


for the way they made their core contribution,

and the force that begat the beginnings

is destroyed in favour of might and moil.


The hope that drove the tiny, trembling cells

is trampled as carbon chokes each millennia’l

budding, and a planet begins to buck, to bend,