In return for appreciation of its rays, the sun
bestows cloaks on everything it touches. Swishy
cuts of darkness, lengthening or shortening
depending on the gift giver’s fancy.
But what of those it rarely touches, beings
which get only the sparsest sprinklings of gold, or
are shunned by it altogether, existing within
those cloaked spaces?
Are they ever considered by anyone?
Patches of green everywhere,
ranging from
vast and feathered ferns
to mosses and liverworts
with minute leaves and ruffles,
often wet to the touch and covered in curious
craters and mini umbrellas
rising like antennae.
All of them survivors
making the most
of their surroundings;
reproducing via spores,
not seeds or pups.
They’ve endured for eons, needing to evolve little
compared to many species.
So, exactly how much thought do we give these primitive old timers?
Barely any
unless
they’re messing with the neatness
of our preciously manicured gardens.
This poem is part of a project I’m doing to raise money for the RSPB, a UK wildlife conservation and protection charity. Being autistic, nature is often my only place of solace, and I want to do all I can to protect it. As I’m not very comfortable around other people, most of the standard ways of helping out (volunteering, ‘traditional’ fundraisers etc.) were not a good fit for me, so I came up with #52weeksofnaturepoetry, where I have to post a nature poem here on this blog each week for an entire year without fail.
If you’d like to help, please share this poem to encourage others to take joy in nature, and if you have the time and means to donate, you can do so here. Let’s help keep our wildlife wild!
Treeshallow Musings 