[ WP ] Mother Nature assumes her bodily form and takes a one year trip around the world . Share an entry from her journal .

**Mother Nature, Cause For Concern** 
 
 My morning routine is very simple. 
 It's the routine of every human being round the world. 
 First, I put on my black birds. 
 I dangle them from powerlines, I mount them on headstones, festoon hedges and siding poplars with their jeweled eyes. 
 Blackbirds, rooks, ravens, crows. Pale-winged starlings. All manner of black bird wings spanning species and size. 
 Then I take the woodpigeon's coo and make its chatter the pillow-talk of a billion dreamers; 
 And, yes, I also take the pigeon's poo and make its splatter the sidewalk of a billion wakers and weavers. 
 When people think of me they think of milk and honey, and it's true, I set the apiaries a-hum and the goats a-nibbling, 
 but when it comes down to it, I am a whole heap of manure, too. Thick, black and round, warm, thin and dribbling. 
 People see me how they want to see me, so though I might be gentle, candles-would-dance eyes, and though I might be strawberry-shaped, a dream of red transfusing fertile fields, 
 I stink with the stench of life itself, I attract -- am -- worms and snails and flies. 
 When my birds are on and my mud is glistening, fields are sparkling with your carnal inheritance composting sweetly below, 
 I am ready for my rouge, and my rouge is no make up. It's the realest red and it pinches the cheeks of the horizon until they glow 
 And glisten in drizzle, rain down light upon unchucked chaff, 
 Tickle the ears of wheat till the field sneezes 
 And, laughing, furrows its brows with the first of the morning's breezes. 
 And, like any other woman, I have to do my morning routine, 
 Make myself up before others can make anything of me: 
 Now I'm ready to take on the world! And I am the world, picked and peeled and unfurled, my gullies exfoliated and my tendrils curled, 
 I'm humanly comprehensible in RGB, and the farmers tend to me, while the layabouts watch me on TV, presented by David Attenborough. 
 They call me Mother Nature. 
 I put on my black birds, pigeons, fowl, fields, oxen, cows, all species bovine, porcine, trees for figs and oranges, prickle and vine, 
 These are things that I do for you, in deference, 
 And today, I attire myself to appear at a Climate Change conference. 
 Here, earnest men and women in white coats prod and probe, and discuss solutions for problems that beset the globe. 
 Mother Nature is dying! is the call to arms, so we must innovate clean energy, recycle plastics and renew our farms, 
 And by sorting our trash and taking due care, we'll save hordes of endangered polar bears, and end the extinction of rare desert palms, 
 And the men in their polyester white coats go on and on about weird beetles and mountain goats 
 And find for a million species a billion harms, 
 And declare that the Planet is in Danger. 
 I, Mother Nature, guest of honour, though without a sitdown place or name tag, have never heard anything stranger 
 Than these so-called scientists with their silly subject matter. I pick from behind my ear a solitary plastic bag 
 And with the rumble of a tectonic plate silence their mortal chatter. 
 That, I ask, dangling the plastic bag before their noses? 
 That, I ask, dangling a nuclear warhead daintily from my lips like a cigarette? 
 These are the pitiful items with which humanity supposes 
 My time will end. A ring-a-ring o' roses, a pocket full of posies, 
 And you think that it's me who'll fall down? 
 When I frown I make continents crease up in mountains, 
 And like a vision of hell I release in fountains 
 Volcanoes of magma; geysers of steam, 
 I've watched a million other species be boiled, drowned and burned, 
 And Man has the effrontery to tell Me that I am a Cause for Concern? 
 The truth of the matter, Man, is I'm not you're Mother, 
 And you're neither my son nor my daughter. 
 Man, cower in front of me, not the other way around. 
 Because I am a cause for concern 
 Like oceans are a cause for water. 
 

