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Quite cosy down here
in the bottom of the hole,
and stacks of food
left by man-things,
who once dwelt
somewhere up there,
in the place of
funny colours,
in the sky.

I could live to be
the oldest worm
in the universe,
with all this detritus
to munch through,
turn again
into rich
black earth.

Poor planet
needs all the help
it can get,
nothing much
grows up there
any more.

Funny that,
no bird songs
for a long,
long time,
grateful really,
their long beaks
don't pluck us,
suck us
from below
the grass
any more.

That is assuming
grass still grows,
I guess one day
I might crawl up
and look,
although I feel
it's still very hot
up there,
in the sizzling fields.

John A. Moller
Whiskey Two Company RNZIR


home | foreword | roll of honour | the poems | links