We fell to the ground grasping at glory
Determined to keep all our honour intact
The more that we reached out with hands clawed and scratching
Our goal disappeared, fabled not fact
Yet still we advanced like mad fools, demented
Determined to make our dream come alive
Harness the earth, make it bow to our bidding
Secure our mad futures, in dark times to thrive
All sense, love and wonder seem things long-forgotten
The one thing that matters is power driven greed
We dismiss those who caution, they’re mad men and tree-huggers
Yet step back, take a moment – what do you believe?
We don’t own this planet, never have in millennia
No, it’s not ours to discard when we’re over and done
There is only one Earth, live on it lightly
We don’t get a second chance – there is no re-run.


You might be pleased to note that I am ready to submit my work in progress novel to the writing competition! The synopsis was my task at this month’s writing group – goodness me, it was hard work, but well worth it. All I need to do now is write a cover letter, print it all out and post it off – how exciting! (It is to me, anyway!). If nothing else, I’ve got back into the swing of entering my work, so there’s no excuse now…

This week’s poem is, once again, inspired by my novelling – this time, the general backdrop of environmental distress. I hope you find it a little thought provoking? 

Please do visit the dVerse Open Link Night for examples of some very fine poetry indeed – and be inspired… Join us!


On Top of the World – Alastair’s Photo Fiction

Here is my offering for Alastair’s Photo Fiction this week, inspired by the photo below.  Why not take part? And why not visit his photography and writing blog to take a look at his other photos…?


– On Top of the World –

I stand on the swaying platform. The wind is scratching at my cheeks, clawing tears from my eyes. For a second, I remember a hiking trip in the Cambrian mountains…

My heart jumps in my chest with fear and laughter as I slip-slide backwards, my feet losing their grip on the scree skittering far below. The echoes of our joy career all around as you and I collapse safely at the top, lungs burning, chests heaving with the effort. Life is rainbow-hued.

Now, everything is fear. I inch forward to the edge of the platform, scanning the seas as they boil below. I see the top of The Shard cutting through the oily waves, and the summit of Heron Tower in the distance. London is gone. You are lost to me, flotsam and jetsam – somewhere.

I steel myself, zip up my diving gear, check my oxygen tanks and mask. The time has come.


For non-Londoners, and non-Brits, here is information on The Shard and Heron Tower