Our World

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.

Paintings and Flowers

I saw your paintings, and your flowers,

and I remembered when,

for just a second,

I had not lost hope.

When my long closed eyes

felt a hint of light,

when I felt at long last

my dreams could take flight,

no longer trapped in the past,

with me shrinking behind my disguise.

At times I feel I cannot cope,

yet I have always known, when troubles beckoned,

fresh hopes would follow them.


And I am lost

in the beauty

of the paintings

and the flowers.


Raindrops on petals, and

art in rusting metals,

fields bursting with colours, and

pictures of never heard album covers,

urban streets, and

tempting retreats,

solitary blooms, and

graffiti ravaged rooms,

the detail of an insect’s eyes, and

infinity found in starry skies,

peaceful scenes of quiet seas, and

poplars leaning in a breeze,

an instant of a bird in flight, and

eternity captured in the camera’s light.


And I am lifting in the wind, with the birds in the air,

slowly drifting, I let go, I am free of my care,

swirling through the colours as the land beneath me passes,

twirling with the swallows over fields of waving grasses,

turning to the treetops that look tiny from so high,

churning through the troubled air and spinning through the sky.


I cannot change the winds that blow,

to where they take me, I cannot know,

music seeps into my mind,

my worries now lie far behind.


I accept control

is beyond my powers.


And I dissolve

in the world

through the paintings

and the flowers.

Maybe We Are Alone

The sapphire sky above seems endless,

and sometimes we forget

the vast that lies beyond.

The atmosphere, a fragile film,

the skin upon our pond.


Lying still with open eyes,

in dark and windless nights

we listen to the silence.

Our earth is flinging through a void

of blackness, cold and violence.


Out there, we feel, we sense, some place,

gentle, warm, like here,

too far to contemplate.

A people there may also feel

alone to face their fate.


Are they just one more shining point

of glittering millions sprinkled

through the universe?

A fabric of emerging life,

the cosmos as its nurse?


We free our minds, and theorise,

we do some maths and, yes,

there must be many more?

It could be true, and yet we know,

we cannot be so sure.


Colossal space, of fleeting time,

we like to think is home

for others who we’ll find,

a seminal discovery

for all of humankind.


But in our shifting dreams, we change,

we wonder whether we

could be here on our own.

In fathomless space, we could really be

one light, of life, alone.

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Swept Away

I sometimes feel

swept away in a river,

arms flailing, trying to stay afloat,

drawn down and away

from the bank

where soft grasses

and small flowers

drift past, as my body passes

rolling gently,

impotent in its inundating powers.


I cannot see.

There could be a kindly tree

dipping a branch where my weak arms could catch it

and clasp, catching my breath,

ready to climb

up through the rushes

and fall on the ground.

Or, as evening hushes,

night sinking,

I may disappear in the widening water without a sound.

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