Mother Earth

by Chris Warren

She pulls the Atlantic round her shoulders
Knots breakers in her flowing hair;
She bends the breezes through her fingers,
Twists cliffs to make her headdress fair.
            But bitter screaming of the seagulls,
            Grey the storm-clouds out to sea,
            And sad the ocean's desperate pleading:
            Deep is calling deep in me.

She heaps the mountains like a bedspread,
Plumps pillows from a drifting cloud;
She smooths the deserts into softness,
Draws forests standing tall and proud.
            But bitter crying eucalyptus ,
            Smoke from every blackened tree,
            And vast the continents of sorrow:
            Deep still calling deep in me.

She runs to gather all her children'
Embraces all in tender arms;
Counts every single one as precious –
For none should wander or be harmed.
            But bitter weeping of the mother
            For the forms that cannot be.
            Lost, forever, to oblivion:
            Deep is calling deep in me

She pulls away: her face is damaged;
Twists body as the pains begin;
She knots with agonies of torture
Inflicted on her lovely skin –
            Ah bitter truth that we have hurt her
            Unforgivable a sin;
            Sharp remorse now she is dying:
            Deep still calling, deep within.