Truth sits in a shattered home,
one time shelter to Mum,
Dad and two small boys:
Angels on the pinhead of politics,
blown over by a wayward wind.

Truth doesn’t pontificate,
brought up over millennia
to speak retrospectively;
a bottled message fizzing at her feet.

As light fades,
those who read translucent eyes
turn inland, seeking lost pathways
through a sorry human space.



As Amazonian forests burn
and indigenous people,
deep in history, rich in knowledge,
who tend and defend our distant
lifeline, cry “Listen!” and we
Nod “Yes,” to the sound of
trees falling, and wonder “What is

As we speak about high values
and postulate in the West
whilst failing to equate poor welfare
with inadequate care,
making mistaken presumptions
that we can continue to
treat people with disdain and
they will continue selflessly.

As we buy beef from those who
kill us and sell our natures,
and will not even bury us in
a place where souls can breathe…
It takes a most of us a lifetime to
understand the poetic entity, where
micro consciousness is vital
to the whole. So read again,


I will scrub this pink
striped dress
with its pretty smile
in the dark bathroom
of abysmal atrocity

I will scrub this pink
striped dress
until fearful nightmares
are happy adventures
riding free in a fast car

I will scrub this pink
striped dress
to remove indelible stains
tattered sanity and
the smell of strangers

I will scrub this pink
striped dress
to repair its innocence
reinstate its torn trust
and drown the sound

of crying