Reading Time: 2 minutes

"There are not words sweet enough, nor yet again sour enough - with which to start and stop a thing like this.  I bring this forward from 2005 when the problems of Today's headlines were no less important." - Allen Ansell




Upon our dreams ride the little ones…
Wide dark pools of innocence for eyes,
Their cheeks given by the softest cherubim,
And mouths that know only the sweetest of fruit.

All are born like this…

Upon desire are they created…
The greatest gift to start afresh, new,
A slate wiped clean of trash, untried, untainted,
With minds that know only the truest thought.

Gifts born from our bliss…

Upon our care are they cossetted…
Wrapped in our arms, held tight in our hands,
Showered with our love, swamped with our indulgence,
They take what we give with absolute trust.

That love should persist…

Upon our moments of frenzy…
When we endeavour to provide, to give.
To tuck away for the later unknown hours,
They stare, wide eyed, taught by our ignorance.

Reality missed…

Upon the tide of retribution…
When the atmosphere is asthmatic…
And the forests stripped, soil shaved and laid bare,
Burgers and buns stuffed in their tiny mouths.

All are killed like this…



© Allen Ansell 2005, 2023