What we call illness
Is, infact, a clockwork response,
Inevitable in the circumstance of now,
Arising in the field,
To mitigate, perhaps,
Some unacceptable attacks
Of toxic poison,
Or judgmental thought,
Or casual violence we have hidden
With the force of abject terror.

Flagrant diseases
Storm in deluded acceptance
Through what we, in our apathy of mind,
Name civilisation,
Send out in vain
Pure information we ignore,
Of heart-sick pain,
Or crooked thinking,
Or situations bound
By the hopelessness of resignation.

At first quite soft,
A whisper that tickles the edges,
Then louder, nearer, till a shout
Emerges in the body,
Breaking out in symptoms!
Then we wage war,
With toxic bullets
Or pills of suppression,
Or sharp knives that remove
With the skill of dedication,

Not realising that we
Can clear the pond of smothering algae,
Can dredge the rivers of pollution,
Can help the seas
Refresh our stagnant waterways,
So rains fall gracefully upon our flesh.
For then the sparkling lake
Becomes our home,
We live in harmony
With this great clock of nature,
And our response, is love.

Songs of Forgiveness, June 2026