So, great men and women are meeting in Glasgow, with the fate of the world in their hands.
Meanwhile, other forces are pushing back. Using the same spoil tactics developed by the tobacco industry, the paid-for ‘think tanks’, stacked with sypathetic pseudo-science aimed to cast doubt and confuse; the politicians in the back pocket, the media outlets primed and ready to push an agenda suited to those whose power and wealth is threatened by a change to the status quo. (If you want to know more about exactly how this works, I would suggest watching this BBC film.)
Here is another poem. My retelling of the Gaia myth.

The woman beneath the hill of the world
.
They say the earth is a woman
Wrapped in a gossamer layer of
Brown-green skin
Runnelled and pooled by
Salt tears
.
They say the woman is barren, for her sterile
Soils are not fed from the falling leaves
Now the trees are gone, and
Long tresses of her deep green hair
Have been stored as silage
.
They say the woman mourns her children
Whose bones now brine the ocean, and
Whose dawn song is no longer sung
Whose savannahs have all
Been stolen
.
They say the woman speaks to mountains
But they no longer listen; that she
Looks for signs in distant stars but their blink
Is blurred by all the smoke from her
Burning forests
.
They say the woman would write her story
Except that the black ink in her wells
Have all been pumped dry, and the
Tail-feather-quills from her favourite flightless birds
Have all been plucked away
.
The woman has not gone yet, they say
For she has nowhere else to go. There are
No lands beyond these fields for her
No other ground she could lay down
So beneath her hill she stays
