Imagine if we owned our world,
the air that flows to every place,
the turquoise ice upon a mountain,
and all of Nature‘s grace unfurled,
and we, a single human race.
Winter snowflakes flurry from the blue,
and settle softly on the morphing land.
The burning sun unveiled, and what a view,
a fresh new world laid out by Nature’s hand.
But then I draw a finger through the snow,
and so can see the pristine white below,
the surface tarnished by Pollution’s stains.
My eyes sting, face tightens, heart pains.
We know we must step up and take the reins
from Dinosaurs with diesel in their veins.
We need to close our eyes and dream
and see a future world to be,
for if you love a dream, and others
share it too, you’ll have a team
to help the acorn grow a tree.
A helicopter seed, so slowly sinking,
sliding sideways in the scented breeze,
over waving virent foliage, crinkling
water shrouding mirrored lichened trees.
Now wondering out across a leafy pavement,
drawn toward a swarming crowd of cyclists,
gliding forward, dragging wind along.
Flowers. Fresh air. London’s future song.
This world is ours, has always been,
though sometimes this can pass unseen,
we helplessly accept our fate,
or realise our choice to make,
just think how it would feel to see
our dreams become reality.