May be that the human nation,
Will hear a sound begin to swell. Ringing out Earth’s detestation, Singing humankind’s death knell. She may start a new gestation;
The Earth may build a different shell.
Not blank and bare, as is the Moon,
But full of wings, leaves, and water. Perhaps, though, we will change our tune; Turn away from filth and slaughter; Weave ourselves a safe cocoon;
Make ourselves better than we were.
O Earth, can we apologize,
For what we’ve done in ignorance? Or, worse than that, we’ve demonized Priests of Magic and of Science.
We watch the Human ship capsize, And just ignore all common sense.
While all around us, telling lies, Are Gods and Ministers of Greed. Will You choose human butterflies, Or something else to supersede?
A new species, gentle and wise. Which of us will You midwife, Bride*?
*This is Gaelic, and so not pronounced according to English phonetics. Take 'breathe' and 'breed' and hover halfway between them.
is an elderly Druid (Elders are trees, neh?) living on a tiny urban farm in Ottawa, Canada. She speaks respectfully to the Spirits, shares her home and environs with insects and animals, and fervently preaches un-grassing yards and repurposing trash (aka ‘found-object art’).