Dark earth twitches with tiny life,
Pale and grotesque,
And sharp crocus spears thrust to the light
Through last year’s rotting leaves.
No human values apply in the real world.
The slug, the crook-legged insects,
The sharp smell of rottenness,
All have their place with the new, unfurled leaf,
The graceful curve of a rose petal
And heady garden scents.
The rose dies, a brown sludge
And brambles bar the way as well as any wire.
Songbirds die exhausted after winter fast
And plumage dulls beneath the creeping lice.
Beauty and ugliness
Two words with meaning only in the world of man
Who makes and breaks and judges what shall be and what shall die.
Give me the morning, sharp and cloud-smudged
With the tang of rain in the wind
And I will raise my face to the sky.
The man-made paradise
With shark-free lagoons of heavenly blue,
Concrete pools, ice-chinking drinks
And misery behind the barrier of palms
Is uglier far than this dark earth
Creeping and busy, full of dead and dying