The Warming Of The World


Early January.

Out morning winter walking in the urban

backwoods, I see what I should not:

green buds breaking from the sleepy bark.

Not just the eager whitethorn but blackthorn, too,

and haw and wild rose and ash and more. All are

stirring now, too soon, wakened by the early warmth

of the world. They are not rested. They will bud and

leaf and flower and die before they should, out of

the time with the rhythm of the seasons. Bluebells, too,

are showing through, too soon, too soon.

This world is warming, these signs a warning

to us all.

The Bin Men

The bin men are here and they’re taking away

the shite and detritus we make every day,

the wrappers and nappies and crappy old bits

and bobbins and clothing that no longer fits.

They load all the bins on the back of their truck

and empty them out in big bucketing chucks.

They wheel them all back to the edge of the road,

where later will come, from their humble abodes

the people who live there to reclaim their bins,

who take them and fill them with more of their sins.

The bin men don’t care, they just take stuff away

the rubbish we make every night, every day,

they take it and dump it in piles upon piles

they smother the earth with it, mile after mile.

Recycle the plastic, the paper and card,

the bottles and tins, because that isn’t hard.

But how to stop making shit in the first place?

That is the puzzle for the whole of our race.

These are some things that we can all do right now,

beginning with thinking about why and how

the crap that we make gets to us at the start

so we can at long last stop making the clart.

Stop buying the things that we don’t really need,

just stop giving in to our consuming greed;

stop throwing away and just mend it instead;

start buying recycled and preloved old things;

a good life starts with these little beginnings.

We have to start now, we at least have to try

and this is the reason you need to know why:

one day our own grand kids will dig down and find,

amidst all the plastic and rancid pork rinds,

a thing with our name on, and then they will know

what granddad and grandma did so long ago.


The name Bolsonaro, revile it, despise it.

We must find some way to curtail and chastise him.

He must be a bought man, there’s no other reason,

So follow the money, and charge him with treason.

For killing the planet, for frying its lungs

The man must be taking the biggest of bungs.

He’s claiming a freedom, but freedom from what?

Freedom to take from all those who have not.

The Amazon creatures, the amazing tribes,

Whose homes he is burning for some fat, dirty bribes.

When his reign is over one thing is for sure,

He’ll have a new home on the Cote D’Azur.

And back in his homeland, amidst all the ashes

The people should find out just where all his cash is.

They should bring it all back, and bring him along, too,

And then build him a home where the wild birds once flew.

They should settle him down in a place he likes well

So he can watch his own country, as it turns to hell.

We Are Become A Horde

We are become a horde.
We are too many.
We are demons,
A curse on this planet.
This world cannot sustain
The weight of us.
Nothing can withstand us.
Our sheer numbers
Overwhelm everything, everywhere.
All are crushed by our feet,
Sixteen billion soles,
Trampling over all the world
And all that’s in it.
Nothing stands in our way.
We cannot even stop
We are the problem.
We know it’s us,
But none of us,
Not one of us,
Knows how to stop our seed
From being spread
Like pernicious weeds
That choke all things to death.
The holy men
Since ancient times
Have urged us all
To make more of ourselves.
A dirty trick.
Make more of us
Than heathen men
Whoever they may be
And we will win
Through weight of numbers
And god will let you in.
The heathen men
Heard much the same,
And the human race
We need to make not more but less
We ought to pray for doom.
Come friendly germs
And fall on us
Please let it happen soon.
It won’t.
We won’t stop.
We’ll leave it to some other,
Or put it off,
Leave it to the future,
To wheneverland.
Like Neverland, a fiction.
The eco-warriors
Fight the good fight
But it’s a war they cannot win
The only solution
Is utter destruction
Of all our kith and kin.
I give up.
The urge to procreate
The will to make life
Is the thing that will kill us all
In the end.

It’s the Ecology, Stupid

It’s the ecology, stupid.
Don’t you get it?
All those things we do,
Eating and drinking,
Everyday living,
That comes from us.
What we can’t help but do,
What comes out of us,
That’s the problem.
It’s the ecology, stupid.
What we make,
What we do with it,
What we don’t do with it,
How we ignore it,
How we don’t see it,
Don’t even talk about it
That’s the problem.
It’s the ecology, stupid.
All the birds,
All the bees,
All the flowers,
All the trees
All the going things.
All the dodos and the auks
All the moas and the aurochs
All the gone things,
They’re the problem.
It’s the ecology, stupid.
The way they die
When they’re near us,
The way they fear us.
Our casual killing
Of all the things
Now living,
Now going, going,
They’re the problem.
It’s the ecology, stupid.
They’re not the problem, though.
The dying things,
The things we kill,
The things we ruin,
What we burn,
What we poison,
What we use and lose,
They’re not the problem.
It’s not the ecology.
It’s you.
It’s me and you.