The Church of England is debating the non-binary nature of God 
I wonder if I would have loved Them better 
If They'd not tried so hard to be male 
Against Their better Nature?
- Who, of course, had to play the role of Mother in order to find some balance.

Will a change in language bring God down to Earth 
To become more integrated with the rest of us?
More ecosystem than Mother,
More spark of life than Father;
A second coming not a Son at all?

*

And when that happens, I thought,
Antonio Guterres will no longer need to speak of a war on nature 
The Climate Change Committee will not report on failed government targets
All our prayers will be answered 
By a more-than-human God:

Our power 
Who art on Earth 
Hallowed be our aims 
Our lands be loved
Nature's goods be valued
In practice as they are in theory. 
Give us this day our locally produced and ethical food, 
And forgive us our trespasses, 
As we forgive those who artificially create the offence of trespass by claiming ownership of land which is, in truth, our shared inheritance and responsibility, belonging to no individual.
Lead us not into overconsumption, 
But deliver us from reliance on fossil fuels, 
For ours is this planet, the power and the glory, 
For now and for ever (if we make the necessary changes and stop mass extinction)
Amen.

It began in Scarborough, on New Year's Eve, beside the sea 
The discarded boot perhaps, of some vagrant giant
Washed up on smaller shores;
Prised us open with ivory prongs 
Finding things we carried with us from afar 
Quite unaware. 
The wonderfully-worn-loved leather jacket 
I lost in Manchester in 1992
When I was not my current self;
An arctic blast; the pink of new-healed wounds;
The moment when you can't go any further, 
Collapse on cold stone; 
Those streets and pavements we have laid on: any port in a storm.
The knowledge of the depths, of distance, waves and weather,
All brought here by the wanderer: 
A slump of stories, a pat of migrant thought, 
Perhaps a wisdom,
Slumbering comfortable just where he'd landed.

And people came, they gathered 
Not just to gawp at foreign wonders
- For he seemed immediately our own -
But to engage, to recognise, to love...
And they cancelled the fireworks, 
Because sometimes the most awe-inspiring eruptions,
The most resounding booms, 
Happen not in the skies but in our hearts 
Or deposited at our feet in ordinary towns. 

And so, while Thor the Walrus slept, 
The change gained energy and pace, 
And our strange new world was glimpsed
On New Year's Eve, beside the sea.

https://us12.campaign-archive.com/?e=3227523e83&u=c993b88231f5f84146565840e&id=2ebb814592

Hello you!
Young Juniper, how do you do?
Are you growing strong and true? 
Do you admire your mountain view
Under autumn skies of blue?

Juniper, to tell it true 
I feel so very far from you 
The blacker clouds obscure my view 
The empty lands where forests grew 
Are what I see 

But, Juniper 
If I reach out, and in, to you 
Trying to find the precise hue 
Of a past spring's mountain view 

I know that I was there with you 
And I did plant you, and you grew 
And I did see a forest new 
Juniper, you're still there, and I am too.

One of my offspring is currently obsessed with midjourney.com, where you type in some words and it comes up with an image. Computer generated art. It’s pretty good. But I have been trying something different this weekend, producing some art and then letting words come into my head to go with it.

The painting is from a photo I took late in the day on a walk in 2015, somewhere in Shropshire. I failed to note the exact location!

The gloom of spoiled hills 
Overgrazed by innocence 
Munching the life out of land for gold 
And a blue-remembered future 

Low beam of light comes sideways 
With distant dreams 
Out there in the benign haze 
Something different gleams

Its mid October and a very long time since I posted anything I’ve created. But as, due to a pressing need for a bit of self-care, I am not participating in any London protests this month, I finally find time to catch up.

Here is a painting based on a photo of Kingcups in Hollybed Alder Carr. Taken in May. And a poem based on a walk during Worcestershire Wildlife Trust Volunteer AGM, and a day helping Cheltenham XR at the Science Fair. In June. Give me a bit more time and I might possibly catch up with myself!

Wood Whites 
The Wood Whites are kissing in Monk's Wood 
They flutter weakly under our admiring gaze 
But don't shy away - being what they are supposed to be 
White wings with purity of purpose 
To light a way towards the future 
When these oaks will spread their limbs 
A little further
In our vision, a bit more wilderness 

And next day, in a tent 
An artificial tree with leaves of hope  
Childish scrawl: 'Dont fill the oceans with plastic' 
'Tell the politics to take action' 
Serious little faces lighting up with purpose 
Being what they are supposed to be
'Yay, worms!' They hurry to the table 
Fluttering around under our admiring gaze
To tell the grown-ups what really matters 
In our vision, a little bit more sense.

Inspiration from this: https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/series/m0014g14
And sitting in vigil with XR Malvern

I am a lone pine on a bare hill 
Surrounded by bare hills 
My forests taken. 
Here there was moss, deep lichen, 
Bright berries ripe for stealing. 
Stolen. 
My arms shade emptiness 
Feeling every strand of loss
Each green star gone.
The cracks that sheltered multitudinous being 
So that my skin was life: 
They ache.
Only barren moor-grass whispers 
Into the distance. 
My roots shorn of friendly fungi 
Rendered less effectual. 
The soil depleted, insubstantial, 
Crumbling at my base. 
Rocking in these winds 
I find small pockets of sustainment, but 
Mostly empty space.
I could fill, oh I could fill a world
With such abundance 
Such an unfurling of love 
And creeping busyness of joy 
If only I could find one strand of hope 
One little thin light vibrant strand 
To touch my roots.

Blackbird amongst crocuses 
Glossy jet and fragile lilac 
Orange stamen beak 
Precious art a gift I'd like to give 
To you, clinging on stormy seas 
Or you, shockhstaring at rubble 
You, cell-bound 
And you, held in concrete head 
For you, who don't know 'crocus' or 'stamen' 
Who cannot recognise the glossy orange black lilac song 
I'd like to gift you this little patch of lawn 
But I don't know how. 
The concrete towers and powers of state 
Raise up to stop me giving. 
Trapped from making offerings of spring 
I give the blackbird crunchy mealworms 
He will present me with his song 
For now, content to keep this to ourselves 
Holding tight a promise 
Of a spring that you can share

this from a few days ago. I found the warm weather at New Year profoundly disturbing. So a colder morning walk felt comforting.

Just a dusting of snow 
On the Beacon 
Winter can be sweet at home
When it comes after 
Unnatural shop-bought man-made warmth 
The fresh-baked hill 
Well-risen for me in this grey dawn 
Although it has a soggy bottom 
I like my weather 
Appropriately seasoned 

These days, when I wake it is dark 
A world of coal and oil 
Ancient life dark before the the dawn of understanding 
Dominates.
I emerge into a lightless landscape 
Primeval fears 
Urges to hate and kill or hide.
They offer me a quick escape into modernity 
A switch to flood the world 
With quick sharp light to hide what lurks.
But instead, what I can do 
Is pull myself up through the black gloop 
Open my eyes to the dark 
And wait for the dawn.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1QHiTWv9EFGVBJyzfBtJNTpB4mfV_FhCWPfcboXdVPTY/edit?usp=drivesdk