What gifts shall I bring to Glasgow? 
I will bring you the aroma 
Of a million shellfish cooking where they lie 
In boiling rockpools;
The last cry of a lonely bird;
The silent columns of an empty wood; 
A meadow without bees;
An orchard with no crop of butterflies or fruit; 
The stink of cattle caged in concrete; 
An ocean of corrupted algae;
A whale rotting on an empty beach; 
The fading rattle of a child's last breath;
A mother's drying breast. 

I will bring you acres of blackened stumps 
And dust; 
The slosh of waves within an empty house;. 
A field of withered crops; 
A single feather drenched in oil; 
A dead earthworm in it's poisoned soil; and 
The vomit of the cancered man who farmed it; 
A skeleton entwined with plastic. 

I will bring you a swollen bloated corpse 
Floating on the ebbing tide; 
Blackened bones and greasy ash 
From flesh. 

I'll bring you the stench of frightened sweat; 
The smell of fear 
And shit 
Flowing through our flooded streets. 
I'll bring you hate in too-young eyes; 
Despair in old ones. 

I will bring these gifts to Glasgow 
And lay them at your feet. 
And then you dare - you dare - 
Tell me you've got this.

Season to twist that mellow fruitfulness, 
Close bosom friend of my maturing sum, 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
With coin the the market forces we greedy run: 
To bend with avarice consumers' needs 
And fill all folk with shopping to the core;
To swell my stocks, and prompt the eager wells 
Of frenzied spending; the greed for products more 
And still more. Make flowers commodities,
And urge to buy unnecessaries without cease 
For 'impress your neighbour' is a drug that sells.

Who hath not seen Earth's freely given store 
And wished to profit from all that they find 
That Nature careless offers? We must ensure 
All her soft nurture subject to the investor's mind.
And while the public's awareness is half asleep:
Drows'd with greenwashing, we take the chance to hook 
Them in, and twist their love for flowers 
Into something meaner - consumerism is cheap 
To harness, wasteful spending easily mistook 
For ethical practice, if you're careful with the look 
And let celebrities exert persuasive powers.

Where are the songs of Earth? Aye, where are they? 
Think not of them, traffic queues have music too: 
All Middle England will burn fuel to come this way 
And pollute the fields of Malvern with their fumes. 
Though in a wailful cry the planet mourns, 
The buyer's ego has been born aloft, 
Their impact disregarded: the planet dies, 
But puffed up with their purchases they heed no warn- 
Ing. Home they go to gardens, lives so fat and soft,
Believing virtue comes from making profit 
And heedless of the threat of capitalist lies.

Poems have not been posted here for a while due to the fact that I have been quite busy with Rebellion in London and then walking from Bristol to Birmingham as part of https://caminotocop.com/

I made a commitment to write a poem every day of the pilgrimage, so here is the complete collection.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ck1Rh8kF7ice-UikFC3_-DC-pjO8CIclix31RiyeT9w/edit?usp=drivesdk

I will be rejoining the walk in late October to walk the last 9 days into Glasgow. The reason for this venture is to draw attention to the need for all voices to be heard on the climate and ecological emergency, we walk to put into practice our connection to the Earth and it’s communities. More of my thoughts in the poems, more information on the website, which includes a fundraiser: the cost of the pilgrimage have been covered, so donations added will go to funding economically disadvantaged activists on the frontline of climate change. If you like any of my poems, please consider making a donation. https://caminotocop.com/

Thank you.

They lure me like sirens 
Bind me in bands of beryl, jade, emerald gilded 
Until I am striped green-gold throughout 
I shrink 
Shoulders itch with unformed music 
Formed in sunshine 
Brain buzzes, veins fizz 
Head hums with heat 
To stridulate 
To become a grass spark singing 
Springing blade to blade

I need hind knees 
To take that leap 
To scratch out my heart song 
To ignite: 
Cool green flames crackle 
Kindled by summer 
Into life 

I'm gone 
Splintered into thousands 
Scraps of knowing only sun and grass 
All else is burned away 
To purest essence

It is comforting to know 
That a spring will come 
When I will not have forgotten the warbler's song 
Sibilatrix or trochilus 
I know 
Will still be singing meaningless 
In the sunshine 
In the spring that comes after the winter 
When I will leave to follow them 
Into the unknown

In the brief gleam of April sun 
A momentary bask is better than a crowded beach 
A bee hums past my ear 
Unamplified 
A swallow carries summer from the south 
And drops it in my lap 
The waves of foamy blackthorn overwhelm 
And drenched in sky song 
I do not need to fly

Two young men 
are building a snowboard course on the track 
'That looks like a lot of work' I say 
'its a lot of FUN!' comes back 

A father is making a sculpture with his daughter 
A snow seal! 'For a school competition' 
They stop to throw snowballs 
'And how is that educational?' I ask 
She giggles 

A golden haze before my eyes 
I gaze 
blue sky and sparkles beckon 
But I must take the downhill path beneath the yews 
go back to work 
to update yet another webinar 
on the (lack of) Housing Assistance for Non-UK Nationals 
as a result of our departure from the EU 
The dark yews drip 
and I want to cry

white swan 
tracery of frost on silver fronds 
and glassy water 
nothing is as clearly pure 
as the sharp white ice 
cracking into fragments 
in the soft muddy turmoil 
where the cattle have walked

The twilight trees greeted me
With comfortable gloomy roots
And Holly and Ivy reached out
To tell me silly stories of the scary woods at night
And Fern jumped out from behind a rock
Waving her beautiful arms
And giggled

And we all put our fingers up
At the light and the noise of the town
Reached our hands out to the dark
And the wild wolves we'd missed
And curled ourselves up in the silence
That should have been there

Out of my upstairs window
I am aware of my humble place
In a vertical world.
The top of the bird feeding station
Which I can barely reach
Is pretty low in the tits' estimation.
I see them eye the fat balls from their perch
Wondering whether to stoop so low
Will they indulge my earthbound yearning?
And entertain my wish to please
The gods above
Or, given the bounty of trees and sky
Am I too far beneath them?