Mark Abraham reading "Humanosphere"

HUMANOSPHERE

We are one, we are one,

we're many, but one.

We stretch round the Earth

like a mould in the sun.

There's plenty to do

but we've barely begun,

and we're only just learning

that we're one, that we're one.

We are one, we are one,

and with muscle and gun

there's much we've created,

much more we've undone.

Whether today, or with Roman or Hun,

war is exciting, but war is no fun,

and we still haven't noticed

that we're one, that we're one.

With the Earth where we live

we are all, we are one.

But as fast as we grow

it's still coming undone.

The good and the bad we make by the ton,

it detracts and increases the power of the sun.

And we still haven't realised

that we're all, that we're one.

There's millions of humans

but as family, we're one,

and there's many more species

and we're still only one.

We spread like a mould

that grows in the sun,

and the balance of creatures

on Earth is undone.

We are one, we are one,

we are still only one.

Yet we live speeded up

like a top, over-spun.

Compared to all others

we seem on the run,

yet what do we know

of what we've become?

We are one, we are one,

on the level as one.

But we try to build columns

as high as the sun.

With the strong at the top

and the weak underneath

it's hardly surprising

we're so short of breath.

We are one, we are one,

first and last we are one.

We're as fresh as the sunlight,

as old as the sun.

There's safety in numbers,

there's danger in one,

and we need to discover

what it is that we've won. 18/11/10

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Mark Abraham reading "Snow"

SNOW

Though never at Christmas itself, the snow

was the icing on our Christmas cake,

was the world turned from all colours

into the one colour of innocence,

from all angles into the shape of smooth and round,

the trees bent double with their extra winter leaves,

the hedges lost beneath the raising of the fields,

the telephone wires stretched and whispering to the ground.

For us it was the best time of all the four seasons,

the time when sledges came out of hibernation,

were rudely shaken, dragged out of sheds and old chicken-houses,

or fresh born in one morning from planks and pieces of firewood,

their runners filched from the metal straps of beds,

their bridles anything from a chain to electric cable,

ready to fire us from the tops of the icy hills

down into the arms of the valleys themselves.

First day, first hour that the snow was ready,

there we'd gather on the pathway to the church,

each of us dragging a platform behind us,

scarves and balaclavas, gum-boots chafing legs,

all sizes, all ages, gender no favour,

usually to a certain place five minutes from the village,

though once we were there we'd pick and choose

just where to make our run.

And soon there was a wide road marked out upon the hill,

a road cut deep across the drifts, smudged darker

than the bright light of the world all about,

a road composed of a pattern of footsteps

always pointing up at either side,

while in between was broken snow

and double lines crossing and re-crossing

down to the heart of pure delight itself.

Green Hill was the name of this highway

though never called green when it was,

and though it was tipped as steep as we could make it,

it was the leveller of all levels, the bringer of infinite space,

where rivalries were forgotten, where bullies faded into the crowd,

where all at once even the most solitary

had too many friends even for them to count.

And after the long haul up,

with our carriages strung behind us,

then we'd reach the very top as high as we could go,

run, pushing the sledge so that it gained momentum,

leapt forward at the right instant, tummy flat to the wood,

our faces inches from the rush, jumping bump by bump,

as close as we could to stare at the ice

till we reached the opposite slope.

Early piece, published in By The Field With The Round Corner

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