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?

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, 



Cambo and others

The candle flamed and then the dark enfolded it,

taking the space from the rank room and filling

it with the sins of the rich nations who take each

glimmer of light and feed on it leaving the rest to

wrestle with the deepening dread of night and


nearby in valley of shadows someone’s sharing

a story of long ago tales, of times where treats

were not rare, and meals were met with thanks

and shared with the stumbling poor. Not one

now knows a joy of justice or the fun of fullness.


The gloom grows with grim satisfaction as the

world closes in – while keeping its largesse for

itself and still they feed the fires of greed as

once wealth takes root it feasts on flights of

fancy that it is never, ever going to be enough.


The historian looked and struggled with tears

that threatened to make pathways down her

frowning features, she read again of the 

terrible tragedy of humans who hesitated,

gave life to oil fields, who oiled their palms




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