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.
