 Take me to your bosom, oh bountiful Mother Earth.
Let me lick upon your nipples, upon hillsides you have birthed. Cradle me in your mountain tops, hold me in luscious ravines. Enthrall me with your peaks and troughs, allow me to sleep in meadows and dream. Embrace me in your valley's cleavage, wrap me in mists of silk. Permit me to drink of your waters, and suckle of your milk. Pull me close into your body, envelope me with your love. Grant me to listen to your heart beat, just a molecule from above. Cuddle me in forests, cover me in grassy plains. Drape me in savannah, keep me from going insane. Warm me in your deserts, caress me on your beach. Touch me ever so softly, with your flora and your beast. Clothe me in your estuaries, serenade me with morning song. Nurture me with field and hedgerow, feed me landscapes to which I long. Sit me upon your plateau, nuzzle me with marsh and steppe. Bounce me upon your tundra, speak to me words I'll never forget. Kiss me with your sunsets, painted vivid upon the sky. Tuck me in at night, all the stars bedecked within your eye. Whisper to me with your wind, sprinkle me with your sand. Be forever next to me, walking with me hand in hand. By Simon Blackler Copyright © Simon Blackler 2018 If you care to comment on this poem at all please feel free to do so below.
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 We cling, to the branch of our birth.
To the only twig, we will ever be known. Through storm, or gale, or merest wisp. Whatever essence of air, has ever been blown. We're stuck, steadfast and rooted. Glued tight, to our parental limb. Eternally joined, by umbilical chord. Or simply attached, at nature's whim. Through every battle, that's ever been encountered. Every war, that has ever been fought. To whatever beauty, our eye has been captured. Creatively imagined, or conceivably thought. We've grown, through the budding of spring lime. And matured, through deep hearted, midsummer green. We've faded, in the waning of the autumn red. Being stripped bare in winter, never again to be seen. But here lies the glory, not only in the living. But in the dying and the deadness too. Where in one final, gusted breath of existence. Stalk is clipped from stem, in two. So then, upon the breeze released. Cartwheels are spun, on currents of time. As we join, with all others deceased. In one spiralling dance, of drift and mime. To where one's final resting place will be. Where tethered boat, does ebb and does flow. Taking the rough with the smooth, in the estuary. Where seagull, pochard and cormorant go. To the clean slate, is where we must eventually fall. Wind gathering us, by the heap and the pile. Adding compost to the new, with the souls of the old. Until the next acorn does drop, resetting the dial. By Simon Blackler Copyright © Simon Blackler 2018 If you care to comment on this poem at all please feel free to do so below. |
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