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, 



Money Paces the Action.

The turbid water struggled down the sluggish stream,

filling my mind with the conflicting consequences of

completed actions repugnant to life, like the stagnant 

putrid puddles steamy with slimy sewage by the bank.


The once clear waters had flowed, tumbling over the

rocks and stones, sparkling in the sunlight as it wove

its way past gay, green meadows and tall stalked fields

of wind blown wheat, waving like golden ocean waves.


Now I see only the wasted time of delayed deliberations, 

spoiling the landscape, destroying the already dying

lives of once naturally resilient flora and fauna for ever,

decisions made by filthy lucre, ignoring the science.


Like the stream we muddied and meandered on 

doing things that meddled and made things worse, 

to line the pockets of politicians and  friends, to suit 

those with egoistic eyes amassing millions in a bank.


I wake, in early hours with gloomy meanderings.

A spiky virus wanders through and I watch it 

despairing that it will ever quieten and agree.

Then a forest aflame floats searing my vision,

cresting the wave of self destruction as each

carboniferous death of a carbon absorber. 


I slip sleepily into the comforting sounds of

a sea shore somewhere where the flow and

fall of tides rocks me ’til I surface fearful.


I lie there, tight muscles, a starter headache,

staring into an airless abyss where towering

trees crash to the gulping ground, and small

frightened folk disappear into smoke filled

zones, where the hottest hell ate their home.


Somewhere in a laboratory, an obligatory 

effort is going on to find ways to quell those

spreading tongues and restore the fragrant

forests, or opening the way for a dying world

to yield heating carbon into holding containers.


I slide fitfully into a place of nightmare dreams

and try to recall the calm and peace of the blue

lulling sea calling me. And then I hear the screams


of women caught by fighting men and forced

from their freedom into slavery as extremist

Moslem wives. I hear their calls for help and

weep bitter tears of shame as I will arise and

live my day fearlessly and framed in love.


I restlessly try to form their cries into prayers

asking a God who they say is love to go there

and show the men that it is their shame to 

treat God’s created beings by cutting back their

lives to be trampled on, their lives terrorised.


And still I cry, for why do men think they have

the power and control to cruelly treat women,

as worthless. I lay awake praying their pain.

Corporations and Climate Change

They sailed their ships across the corporate greed,

slashing and burning, til they filled the bee strong air

with the sound of cries of the dying, the waves of 

the plasticised sea, turning a blind eye to succeed.


Layering the nest of those whose intransigence is

bound to a menus of growing evil diligence, to saw

away at the world’s natural life until they have made

it a desert, a monument to mans mandatory pride.


In the waters of business and gains, its holed by

carbon and plastics and oil and coal, til water is

walking through the gaps,  met by cries of chaps,

‘Its entirely natural, the water should be on board.’


The steady flow fills the field of their vision but still

they cry, ‘Its ok, mates, we stay as we are. You can’t

believe Thunberg, the science is flawed. We will be

safe, we will stay floating, it is just as we planned.’


They gathered their trashing tools and made more 

breaches, and they suck dry the poor like leeches.  

saying, ‘Ignore them, the maths is all wrong. We’re

to be making mega bucks without any restrictions.


Turning slowly their megacorps sink below the 

waves.  As the ocean of climate chaos covers 

the deck there are still vain voices to be heard, 

‘We don’t need to change. We need to make 

more money and 

more money……..’

silence echoed around the earth and a film of plastic

blew across the desertified, death strewn landscape 

A Rainbow of Grace

Deep in sorrow I walked the walk of grief,

Feeling in my hurting heart the pain of loss.

Each beat a reminder of them and their sweet

faces now facing an enemy grown by greed.


The rainbows arched across the sky, spilling

their palette of colours as it stretched until

it sank into the seething sea, and shared its 

delight in the writhing waves of the sea water.


I reached for a brush and paper wanting to

replicate the delicate hues, and share my own

pleasure in a prism given to us signifying that

God’s creation is a gift that cannot be compared.


I lay and watched and thoughts flowed through a

third eye to another place. There, there is water

and a dome of coloured rocks and everywhere

dancing painted arcs that ripple and flow with


every combination and complication forming

and reforming red, gold, fern green, palest pink,

prime colours and even those we cannot see,

as if a paint chart is playing its own concerto.


I opened my eyes and the sky was going grey,

the loss of the grace of that moment grieved

by the heart, yet still in my mind’s eye it lived,

and over the horizon a growing darkness filled


the skies and brought me back to the gloom

of dying children and forest fires breaking

the chain of life and deepening the crush of 

a changing climate that will cause a cataclysm. 


From a grateful gift of grace I walked on 

with a rainbow of hope pulsing with the

rays of refracted sunlight, a lighthouse 

of hope in a dark and troubled moment.

The Graveyard of Climate Change

The earth shifted and a fitful groan echoed through the desertified landscape,

A sheet of plastic wrapped itself languidly around a tortured thorny tree,

across the sanded earth small creatures slipped between the drifting dunes

and on the horizon rose a cloud, hurrying them to huddle beneath the golden


grains. Growing it then blotted out the sky and the sun strained to see the 

world that humans had created through their pleasure seeking parties;

that told the world that they were supreme idiots and ignorant idlers. 

The swift storm passed, taking the polluting plastic to another place


where it hung on a post pointing to nowhere anymore because people

who built roads and homes and hosts of beautiful buildings were no

longer there having destroyed the globe with their glittering greed. They

live now under monuments to avarice and apathy in a forgotten graveyard.

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 





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.