Is it winter?

There was a time when winters here were cold
When snow and ice bit deep into the bone
And frosted windows met us, rising, every morn
When icy pavements meant we slipped and slid along.
There was a time when summers were so warm
The sun shone bright between the clouds
And heat rose humid from the fields,
Bright with wildflowers, buzzing insects
And the heady scents of earth and farm.
But then came now, and now it should be winter
But the February temperature tells me no,
For I feel the heat rise across both town and country
See a clear blue unremitting glare upon the water
And the butterflies awake and flit and start
But it is winter or is winter summer now?
For this thing called climate change has confused us all.

Poem and photo copyright Englepip©

THE MOON CHILD

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.






Poem and photo copyright Englepip©

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.