I wrote this on a Trees For Life week in April. I feel now that I want to pass it on to all the amazing XR community.

An eagle startled us among the birch
The size!
He flapped and soared across the plantation
I’m sure his eye could see
And pick out each new sapling
Even the tiny sprig I planted beside the waterfall
And count (if eagles count)
Each prayer, each dedication
Each word of love and loss and hope
Each memory of laughter
Each song of life renewed
I thought of those who helped us here today
The love
That crowds upon this place like moss beneath the birches
Each sprig and lichen flake
Picked out by those who see
And spread the word
The truth of all we do
We startled an eagle among the birch
We’ve changed his view

All I want to do

Is sit under a tree

And write poems

But I have to

Go to work

And pay the bills

And put out the bins

And do the washing

And read the news

And share the post

And sign the petition

And save the world

And do the washing up.

I have to mend my shoes

And darn my socks

And put out the recycling

And write to my MP

And stop the destruction of the planet

And do the washing

Do the washing up.

And save the bees

And end extinction

And wash the bins

And change some minds

And share some hope

And plant some seeds

And do the washing up.

I have to mend the world

And clean some minds

And stop the post

And put out the destruction

And hang up the washing

And save the recycling

And clean out my MP

And pay the bees

And write to work

And stop some mind

And plant some change

And darn the news

And be the change that saves the planet

And work to stop the end

And destroy the extinction that puts out the bees

And plant the change to mend the new planet

And write the destruction to stop the end of minds

And plant the new bees that work to save the world

And hang the washing up.

And all I want to do

Is sit under a tree

And write a poem

And hang the washing up.

 

 

Lesne’s Earwig has been planting moss in the Peak District.

These pachydermous hills

Sit in fortitude above the follies at their feet

Ever present in their thin and velvet skin

Each bone, each slump and slip

Self evident. They itch.

Scarred by disregard and misplaced affection

Scabbed by overgrowth of heather, drying into dust

Till Kate comes with her mower

To scratch the pleasant beasts

Damn their gullies, stop their weeping sores

And we, a flock of ox-peckers

Tiny, but well-intentioned

Not removing but implanting

Emerald strands of moisture…

The ancient pachyderms

Stand ready to absorb.

***

13 million tonnes of carbon are stored in the peat soil of the Peak  District. Peat  is dried by excessive drainage, by burning to encourage a monoculture of heather for grouse shooting.By overgrazing.By pollution which has killed the sphagnum moss

When peat bogs dry the carbon is released into the atmosphere.Biodiversity is reduced. The landscape is degraded.Water becomes unsuitable for drinking. And flash floods occur.

Cutting down on all the negatives, reducing the heather coverage and planting sphagnum to restore the bogs, allows the land to function as it should.

It seems to me that some people here

Are like a child who comes from an abusive home

Getting into a car

Because anything is better

Than home

We can beg them to stop

We should have done more in the past

We all had our own dysfunctions

And failed

But I want you to know

That when you come back

However you have made me suffer

Whatever you’ve done to yourself

I will still be your friend

 

Today I saw a pigeon

Beside the railway track

With great determination

Pecking at a concrete crack

I could not understand it

It seemed dangerous to me

What could motivate it?

But I am not a pigeon

Throw a sicky, she said

And I felt sick

Is this what we’ve come to?

Is all honour gone?

If the world is ending

Must we abandon all we hold dear?

Or does she just think that

I’m wasting my time

With these things that I do?

I believe in the cause

I know that it’s true

But there is more to the world

So much more to be done

I will not go quietly

Into the dying

But I will go on my own terms

Into the light

You brave ones may forge ahead to glory

Breaking the chains

We honour you truly

Demolishing walls

You’re taking us through

But some of us are going back

For those buried in the rubble

Those who didn’t hear the call

Were trapped, alone and voiceless

Or not human at all

We’ll try to dig them out

Honour their forgotten beauty

Or just stay behind to hold their hands

Rebels who did their duty

I will not go quietly

But I will not rage

I’ll walk with head held high

Though my back is bent with carrying

And though I come too late.

 

Coed Nash, Presteigne 26/8/2019

 

These woods are not yet burning

Cool with green growth still

August heavy, waiting autumn’s turning

The anxious heat of outside filtered

The only flame a fritillary

Amber, not a warning yet

She swoops, then lifts herself

Not weightless, heavy with sunlight

Pulling our gaze to trees and sky

She’s silver-washed beneath

The orange energetic glow keeps moving

To show how green and still these woods still are

But we know, we know watching

That other trees flame, not with butterflies

But devastation

That weight she bears on carbon-patterned wings

Cast upwards with the smoke

We turn away

We must leave this cool green way

And step into the harsh reality

Of that burning glare

Did she warn us? That single flame

We look back: these woods are not yet burning

But some are.

 

 

My friend Sara

Feeds eggs to crows

She mothers turkeys, dogs and bees

And fine young men

She walks like a goddess amongst the wild things

Crying over otters

And bewitching hares

Guardian of sharp implements

Roaming cattle and wandering cats

She flies along hedgerows

Laying them with strength and tenderness

And avoiding tall trees

In deference to songbirds

Inside she is all soft nesty warmth

Like a dormouse

Which just occasionally uncurls

To show fangs and claws

My friend Sara

Reminds me of blackthorn

Fiercely protective wild creature home

Soul that shines like blossom

(Photo thanks to Sara Burton)

When you walk through the high grass

Do you know how life is sweet?

Almost heedless as you pass

Of the magic at your feet

Do you hear us sing life’s glory

Where the grasses gently sway

Why do you want to make a story

Tell yourselves to drudge all day?

What made you silly humans

Think that ants can show the way?

They’re just stealing all your sugar

Grass is sweet enough I say

Do you know the jewelled treasure

That lives beneath your gaze?

Can you feel life’s truest pleasure

Singing joy throughout our days?

I am the prettiest grasshopper

I skip your heavy tread

I live the love of summer

Can such of you be said?

I say

Come live the love of summer

For soon we will be dead

 

 

 

Along the side of the Malvern Hills

 

So much above

So many shapes and textures

So many shades of green

I cannot tell

How steep the slope

How high the bank

How far above the -manyness-

So much above

me

While here I stand

Looking at the underneath

*

I could, of course, go up

Mount this hill

And stride the ridge

With the birdsong and the freer air

Look down on all the little people

With their little lives

And me above

them

Looking at the underneath

*

But here I stand

Admiring the reverse of each new leaf

Unturned

Where bugs crawl

Small creatures scutter

And only the occasional foxglove

Reaches down for a kiss

The green is all above

And I am here

me

Looking at the underneath