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?

A Cracked Pot

The pottery wheel brings the writhing clay to life,

its whirring pulses through the hands, moulding 

the sticky gooey mess, growing its potential and

finding its nature through touching, loving and

caressing the dirty lump until it reveals 

its hidden glory.

Steadily the rhythm grows and a shape is formed,

a vessel glad to be created, as the potter boldly

pulls and pursues the pleasure of sensing their

own power flowing into the clay, carefully seeing

beauty materialising with a sense of pride in 

its inner glory.

Decorated and fired the fluted vase stands, and

accepts admiration and the echoes of desire

to fulfil its purpose. But, the proud purchaser will 

decide.  Will it live out its lifeless life overflowing 

with tulips, lilies, lupins or empty as Art revealing

its outer glory?

What am I? 

The vase on show?

The cup to carry water to the thirsty?

The vase overflowing with beautiful flowers?

The squat pot full of plants that poison or pollute?

I know I am cracked broken by the pitfalls of living?

Did I resist the creator as divine love shaped my calling?

Or, will that passion of re-generation in the welcomed Spirit 

reveal through my cracks love’s amazing light, glory and grace?

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.

The Earth left to Governments

The moon stared through the dust at the landscape,

barely limming rooftops and rare trees with her light,

and down in the streets no one moves as the dark

oppression of climate collapse knocks on their doors.

—–

Hiding behind a front door a child peeps through the

unsealed letter box, and smells the dust and heat of

a hundred nights that harried nature into silence, and

slowed the breath of millions of condemned creatures.

——-

As the moon sets the shining stars sparkle in the sky,

but below on the earth no one sees, for the earth has

turned to gritty fragments which hide their sparkling

beauty for a world turning to a darkening, deadly way.

——–

Too soon the sun warms the grit and ash until the air

makes lungs gasp and bleed and give up their hope.

And, so they lay on the earth and are soon covered by

blackness of oil, coal, wood fires, plastic and human

———

detritus, which soiled its way into the fighting words of

a century of cries – that destruction was the destiny and

the politicians listened and did their own thing licensing

oil exploration, coal excavation against science and tho’

——-

children struck, people marched and wrote to their loss

leaders, who like an arrogant army of ants all over the

land they devastated jungles, forests and farmland with

poisons, pollution and greenhouse gases spilt large, til

——

the rivers ran dry, armies fought over water, and blood

stained the ground where food and been, for brother

fought brother for a bite, while suffocating particles 

filled the arid air until the once homely planet supports 

——–

only death.