On my desk is Yeats, the poet, his words like silver
Trickling off the tongue and by my bed is Larkin
Each word a measured blow to the mind, a sliver
Of pure gold and still I weep, unsatisfied, and do not know
The way to turn. At times my body feels wormlike
With its entrances and exits, cells on cells hurrying their busy work
Tools to measure the evolution of this life on earth.

Pictures of the seas and the land
Swallow me up. Tides wash me clean
And I feel the past as in an empty shell
Listening to the echo of a lost whale
Calling for its mate, the deep monotone
Echoing across oceans.

Now the ice is melting and the seas
Grow warmer and all life must change.
My species driven by its will knows no respect
Nor understands the nature of the womb
Nor where its strength rests.

We have chosen weakness rather than strength
And are bewildered when the earth strikes back.
We cannot see that in the raw wilderness, in the
Infinite creation of nature lies the secret
To our lives. Like rats we multiply in the sewers
Which we ourselves have built, waiting for the apocalypse
To come. Such sadness. Such beauty.
And such loss. Ah well...