Poetry

The Walking Tree

The tree gazed at the disappearing ground.

It couldn’t stay there,

its nourishment would be gone.

So it gathered up its roots into vast legs

and stumbled its way across the

evaporating forest

to an area of neat grassland,

digging down to plant itself beside

the hive of two-legged beings

who spilt their freshly poured coffee

and ran to their moving metal boxes

to get out of its wake.

Poetry

Toxic

My lungs hunt for fresh air,

snatching in every touch of breeze they can.

But recently the freshness can’t be found.

The air is choking. Curling smoke and fumes

culminate into balls and whack themselves

into my system.

I can feel it, but no one else seems to notice.

The vapour from their own breath

comes out black.

Poetry

Crude

Pine fresh, they say
stepping from the dark pool
that was flora, that was fauna,

that was lost, that was found
and now is used. Its lifeblood spilt.
Split into molecules, measured for worth, for potential
for making cloaks of green paper
with no chance to rest.

The ghosts of it chant as they chug from engines
itching to join the mists and rain back into the soil that was home.

Some do, only to find they have become poison and turn the earth black.

Poetry, Uncategorized

Weather change

If the breeze could speak, I wonder if it would tell us where it’s come from.

Tell us about the butterflies that have surfed on it, or the parachuting spiders waiting to paint the trees with silk.

How many bodies it’s brought together,  channeling life from flower to flower,

catching dreams and sending them by sky post to Mary Poppins.

Would it tell us about the cut trees it’s seen, the hunters who have no hunger to warrant hunting, the water that was ice and the islands not made of rock or soil, but plastic?

Maybe it already is speaking and we just haven’t learnt how to listen.

Poetry

Broken Time

The couple are seated, quietly speaking on a bench.

They talk of days, of moments, of ups, of downs.

Nothing they do disturbs the hustle beyond them, until someone

claims that it does.

 

They’re sitting too close, if they want to be intimate, find somewhere else.

They remain seated, talking. Just talking.

Those things shouldn’t be spoken about in public. Save them for later.

They hesitate, then continue talking.

Is there something wrong with you? It’s crazy you would be so open. What if a child hears you? Do you really want that?

 

Tainting them? Tainting me? Tainting us?

 

Voices that were silent now crash over the couple’s moment,

blocking their words, twisting them, unhinging them.

 

The couple takes out a tube of bubbles trying to seal themselves away.

It works, but the clock is already counting down until it pops.

 

They hope no-one appears with a pin.

Poetry

Droplets

They roll down your cheeks,

Little universes

Each containing a fragment of your

Astonishment and pure joy.

A child whose eyes have been

Opened to the beauties of the natural world;

Meadows full of wild flowers,

Rock pools and puddles,

Waves rushing forward

Like herds of galloping white horses.

But you are no child,

And the wonder overwhelming you is

Love,

In its truest form,

And the knowledge that she

Is filled with it too,

Her body not big enough to contain it.

So out it comes

As tears

to match yours.