The dying thistles blow in the wind Spreading next year’s crop Of pain and beauty Floating on the breeze. Beautiful at a distance They provide some Sustenance for insects and birds, Until on an urge to reproduce They send out their Seemingly innocent progeny, On wings of fluffy parachutes To colonise the world In the same guise. Then turning their shameless heads Upwards, like little suns Of self satisfaction Too late they realise their Mistake And hang their heads In death and repentance.
Such is misinformation Difficult to stop Attractive to look at Apparently benevolent But inflicting Pain that pricks at our heels And stabs our fingers. And which misinformation, Seeds itself in ways That we cannot anticipate.
It hangs as a ball in an azure sky Bobbing in an ocean of blue ether, Buoyed on pink candy-floss clouds: And as the sun sets on the darkening Globe below, the all-seeing moon Stares at the world which bore it, And thinks that Mother Earth Is burning like a sun, suffering From the heat of its diurnal rival And melting into barrenness From the excesses of a deadly Parasite: Man. And if it could cry it would and Drown the fires with tears of sorrow; It would scream to eternity Of life wasted and for its loss. It would blow cooling breath on the deserts and poles And scratch out The infestation, Which is killing Its mother.
When I began to write this poem, I began to write about the beauty in the sky but my feelings about the raging fires in California; encroaching deserts and warming poles are so intense I began to personify the moon and feel its loss as though we are killing its mother.