by
           
          Michael James Heron
           
           
          Aloft, and alone in  the evening sky
          Where stars and clouds swim idly by,
          The moon revolves around our world
          And bathes us in her light.
          And ancient eyes within her soul,
          Observe us through the night.
           
          She has watched as babes played on the land,
          On verdant soil, and desert sand;
          She has smiled to see us hard at play
          And laughed to see us run.
          And wept with joy to see us sing
          And bathe in childhood fun.
           
          She has frowned as, adults yet to be,
          We mocked the dawn’s infinity;
          But seen that as the natural way
          Of a childhood left behind.
          She smiled to see our first few steps,
          As adults ill-defined.
           
          But as we grew, and left behind the ways
          Of those gentle, childhood days,
          And forever lost the gentle hubris
          Of those fledgling teenage years,
          Those ancient eyes were touched by sadness
          And brimmed with ancient tears.
           
          Trees which strained to touch the sky
          Were cut for lumber and left to die
          As we raped the verdant valley.
          And left the earth cut open wide
          As we choked her with our poisons
          On the plains and mountainside.
           
          Her bitter tears of wept regret
          That we ignore and still forget,
          That we are but guests and visitors
          On this sphere of blue and green;
          And that our actions, cold and harsh,
          Are barbarous and obscene.
           
          For the foresight which we adults lack,
          We turned the seas to shining black,
          And turned the jungles of the world
          Into deserts void of life.
          And where once were children playing games
          Are warfare, pain and strife.
           
          And as we embrace those artificial rules,
          The wisest prophets turn to fools
          As we bow before the altar stone
          Of those synthetic market forces.
          Greed and profit rule our hearts,
          As we plunder the Earth’s resources.
           
           Cynthia watches, and Cynthia weeps;
          She cries in the night whilst the world below sleeps,
          As merchants and bankers repose in their beds,
          Dreaming of power perverted.
          The moons meditates on her children tomorrow
          As she shines on a planet deserted.
           
           
          ECOLOGY PAGE