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‘R’ You Saving The World?

globe of the Earth with a supportive hand underneath it
Some of us R trying:
Recyclers, re-users and repairers;
riders of bicycles and rev-ers of electric cars;
reducers of emissions with bio-mass boilers,
roof solar panels, and residents who use them,
really sustainable developers,
       with rainfall harvesters and run-off tanks;
regular givers and those who limit usage of finite resources;
radical learners who know what’s safe, not toxic nor wasteful;
radiant fashionistas in natural fabrics, not man-made rayons;
rich beauties who never use micro-beads in ‘products’;
radgie gadgies who put their newspapers into the blue sulo;
ruddy faced growers of organics who reject chemicals;
reflective designers of biodegradables who create wrappings
    and rubbish that rots rapidly;
religious genetic engineers who’ve worked out the ethics;
researchers who grow food with hydroponics;
readable writers who explain global warming,
    so oRdinaRy people understand;
realistic politicians (The Green Party)
    who plan for the planet not just for now;
revolutionary citizens who vote ecologically,
resourceful pupils in gardening clubs, growing radishes and runners,
retired folk, volunteers in conservation projects, who make compost;
Rwandan game-keepers who care for rhino,
Russian zoo-keepers who breed endangered raptors,
rustic bird lovers who refill seed feeders regularly,
retailers who refuse to sell plastic,
people who use renewables over and over again,
and I refill a reusable glass bottle to rehydrate.

Sue Foster



Photo by Greg Rosenke via Unsplash

Currently Popular Poems:

Covid Funeral Haiku

To an empty room As she told their story The clean air vibrated Clare

Ash Scar

Grey, lofty, sombre ash Fissured cracks monumental, fraxious ash. Porosity bedded in stone, with far receptive views to craggy tableland plateau. Deaths’ shadows brush a mysterious and scarred graveyard. Amplified crackles of pavements of gloomy fissures, dissolved joints. Bedding planes rubble underfoot, crunch on the broken ridge, speared and bony ash deaths’ whispers a skeletal calling. Stephanie

Beneath the Oak

Beneath the oak I sit and contemplate Worries blown away with the wind Lapping waves at my shore Refresh my thoughts Anon.

A Woodland Ensemble - Psithurism of the Trees.

The plane tree With paper-like rustle Elephant patches And scaly trunk. Memories And mellow whispers Of a darkest tempest Dropping the bass. Constable elms Whispering, suckering saplings Converting To beetle runs beneath. Ash- With minstrel keys playing harmonies masking sinister die back. Crataegus thickets The scratchy rasping may catch you quick. Whispering pines Bend forwards Reaching skywards Splintering the silence. Mother beech With spaltered Marks waltzing And humoresque streaks. Holly reigns in Summer solstice Days shorten And poco a poco winter returns. King of the woods Ships hold Forte and Table fast. Eric

Abbey Stones

Laboured stones Rough stones Stones of dismay Honest stones Pocketed stones Hidden stones Fractured stones Unstable stones Foundation stones Clumsy stones Ancient stones Split stones Abbey stones Stephanie

Blue Sky

Blue sky And clouds float by Looking up high I can see why They do fly Blue sky Mavis

Lichen a Plenty

Lichen a plenty,  With your crispy and crusty Foliose forms Lichen reveals the Hidden substrate beneath. Ashley

Saharan Breeze on Suffolk Shores

That special summer evening. Whispering Saharan breeze on Suffolk shores. Warmth gently caressing, sensually embracing. Soft silken touch. Tomorrow is Monday. Today is paradise. Let this last forever. Shall we stay? A B&B? Reluctantly, we turn and leave this strangely tropical coast tonight. Bliss has to end. As did our love. That rare heated air will return, and I will cherish its soft warmth. But will intimate love? A warm embrace, a soft caress. Sharing a special summer evening. by Adrian. 

Oak Meadow

B anished by force are warmth and sunlight Where we scratch and hack in the undergrowth. Nature’s front line is well entrenched here, In-grown and wiry with brambles and brash. Ages running wild, seeding and shooting At will, snagging, choking and smothering Have toughened her. In self-strangling struggle She scrabbles and claws her resistance – A tortuous mesh of trip-lines, barbs for skin And slips for boots in the mush underfoot. Old, alone and confused, like a geriatric tramp She bristles in layers of shredded sacking. Let’s tease out her bits, put to the burning Barrow-loads of combings; rake up the mess On her breast, sticky with burrs and briars; Open her up to the sun, re-stitch her Seams in woven hedgerows, with patches of Flowers fight back the years. Waken Beauty, Give bees and butterflies her face to love And we too will grow young with the work. Julian Case

Lone Stone

Stone, stone Oh who to be a stone? Don't moan We are all on our own Even as a stone! Josh