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,
Through the depth of each night, till the dimming of days,
it’s a difficult path to the parting of ways.
For the sake of us all, for our dads and our mums,
The carers will carry the vulnerable ones.
When others step sideways, the carers come through,
to meet expectations that daunt but a few.
Intuition and patience, resilience and smiles,
They will take up the slack for the final few miles.
An angel spoke to me one night
when I sat in my youth
he told me I should be aware
of one unerring truth:
That like or not the time will come
when I will need a hand
to guide me through my daily life
– not quite what I had planned.
He bade me think, this angel fair
of loving volunteers
and low paid carers struggling
to tend my ageing years.
What will I want when I am old?
An elephant that rages
because we locked the cupboard door
and wouldn’t pay her wages?
Am I so sure I will not yearn
for love’s sustaining patience
when I am old and on my own
with similar relations?
Why do we lend so little heed
to those who hold our future?
For I’ll receive what I beget –
if I forget to nurture.
“So pay the carers what you will,”
the angel said, “be certain
that you will want the gentlest hand
to close your final curtain.