If in truth, there was no tone of light

there would be no atmospheric days,

no resting time as dark closes in,

no replenishing life’s growing ways.

If the persevering soil was gone,

there’d be no obvious place to start,

no foundations to build life upon,

no cement to bind its works of art.

If bare the surface, no earthly rocks

scattered wide by ice uncaring,

there’d be no shining jasper, quartz,

no conglomerate chimaera pairing.

If the desert sands ran around the world,

no water of life to spark the seeds

or billowing of the lofty clouds,

there’d be no plants nor clinging weeds.

If birdsong failed to ignite the heath,

auspicious territory then conceded,

the courting dance would play no part,

no furthering of the species needed.

If in truth, there was no human race

toxic waste, destruction, empathy

for the continuation of creation,

there’d be no poem to light this place.