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 

have 

so 

little 

now.

Super Wealth and Destructive Politics.

Curling leaves and cruel heat scorching the thirsty fruit,

smoke covered faces and sweat soaked uniforms,

telling the cost of carbon fuels.

Fires rage and ground cracks as the power of the few

imagines that they control the climate for the  wealthy

who vainly want their profits.

===

Children with their empty tummies rumbling and their

grumbling parents, who face starvation and the rich 

 – charge the poor for their banquets.

——-

Justice and mercy do not meet in our democracy now

for the few they have what they want and destroy lives;

but God will not be mocked.

—-

Silently, the power of the few has broken ranks and

slowly they will drift apart until their raft will sink

and will we throw them a life belt?

—-

History happened ,but will it come again?? that power

has been taken and nature enslaved to the ranks 

and bank of the oppressors.

Climate change brings a levelling up and a crisis

that we cannot imagine. And, like ants in water to

survive the whole must strive.

—-

They blink their eyes and shout on the biassed 

broadcast but the earth fills with the rising seas

and mountains become hills.

Some think three homes and billions of pounds

will keep them afloat but the naked truth does

not lie – we are destroying the gift

—–

of a planet, blue and green with polar caps

all for the sake of carbon fuels and motor

on as creation and people die.

May God help us!

Cruelty in Politics

The knives are out and the dissection started,

Each knowing and set their direction signalled..

Tax cuts or higher tax to quell the over wealthy

as they lean in and offer or finger their purses.

Each one turning the tory vice on their victims:

a family, school children, refugees and workers,

the struggling overwhelmed by rising prices and

now the neglected climate heats oppresses so.

—–

Meddlesome politicians, manipulating tories,

baking the populace while they turn their backs,

letting strings be pulled by influencing hacks, who

push the line that all is fine when many will die,

because experts are marginalised and lies 

carpet the halls where ignorance is encouraged

as long as the money is kept going into  their off

shore accounts and the founts of wisdom dry up.

——-

They laugh at us while babies and children die,

and the power of a few is consider wisdom,

and its wielded incoherently, and the many

have yet to ‘awaken the dawn’ and become 

a force for change and a flaming torch for

justice, equality, the common good and a

wonderful welcome for wanderers on the shore.

——

They come to our shores desperate, fleeing 

terrible things only to be sent away to an

evil regime that rules by terror and so they

travel worn, war torn, cry in their pillows 

where there are no rights. but another 

Tory ally who sheds blood, greedily rakes

in the cash and buys shameful sorrows.

——

Stand up, do not fear for we are of saving

the lives and opposing those who shackles 

the prisoner rather than freeing them from 

a despot’s chains. who blinds the seeing 

with blatant untruths and deafens the hearing 

with insistent noise, with words without meaning, 

sounds that continually violate hoping we will

grow numb, turn away and crave inaction.

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 

take

its

course.

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

by

their 

fires.

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

change

is

absent.

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.