A worm tells summer better than the clock,
The slug’s a living calendar of days;
What shall it tell me if a timeless insect
Says the world wears away?

Dylan Thomas - Here in this Spring


Tuskless, commodity-stripped, perfect symbol,
she's there, unacknowledged-obvious, in every room;
aching, bleeding, staining

  our polyester comfortables,
  our VOC-high colourfuls,
  our single-use convenients:
  consumerists' obedience; tasting

  our insect-free comestibles,
  our methane-rich digestibles,
  orangutan deliciousness:
  unthinking-conscious viciousness; hearing

  our work's most pressing business,
  our leisure's screaming silliness,
  our aeroplane dawn chorusses:
  this time's tyrannosauruses ...

touching, mourning, tender-trunked,
the sun-white bones of ancestors,
knowing where she came from,
sensing what comes next,
ever-wise, effortlessly noble,
patiently conserving,
drop, by 

her justified rage.


March 2019