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