Poetry by Jeff Green



by cricketjeff on April 16, 2010.  © Jeff Green, All rights reserved

Across a wash of Wedgwood blue
The birds are all that flies
The England that the ancients drew
With unencumbered skies

Far North of us a stream of ash
Explodes into the air
And since they do not want to crash
The planes aren’t anywhere

If you’re away you’ll have to stay
No chance of flying home
Your trips extending day-by-day
You’ve much more time to roam

Volcanoes don’t believe in man
We’re far too small and fast
They work towards the longer plan
Progressing blast by blast

Some oceans stretch and some recede
As plates are on the move
All working to our planet’s need
We aren’t asked to approve

The plume of ash a tiny part
Of these more massive tales
But it has filled this poet’s heart
No Bloody Vapour Trails!!!

Author notes

On a news programme a journalist was interviewing a geologist about the volcano’s effects, and at one point asked “when can travellers expect to be able to fly again”

The reply, delivered entirely dead pan was
“It’s a Volcano!”

Said it all really