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.

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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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