Are we held so close to a cacophony
A constantly cluttered carry all; finger tight
That the truth goes missing?
So deafened by the on-screen streaming
The strongly selected and over presented –
That we are always asking for more –
The wild rabbit hole mind – blind
Hands full – falling?
Even as the sad bells are tolling out
Across our pale and polluted skies –
Can we find those ancient feet
To walk again the long song lines
And save a blighted landscape?
The wasting chunks of our reality
Stare us in the face as the heat rises.
A desert fingers the green face of life.
And seas weave a plastic shroud!
We listen fitfully for the dying
Whispers of the tribes!
The sounds of the old ways.
Or can that minute joy in a grain of sand
Still be the looked for,
The slowly – turning point –
That near, dear exact measure!
Our only good – a quantum leap
To a careful husbandry of this earth?
Light in an Avenue of Trees
Bringing revelation –
A silent seed waiting!
Wynsome Kierman, 2019
Photo: Souad Hervé