Bali
The water moves
with the wind.
It bends itself
into undercurrents and froth
repeating over millions of years
on this beach, or one like it,
slowly shaping the land,
which shapes us,
who shape plastic.
I sit, part of this place,
knowing the ground
is in my bones,
that I breath and
am the air.
Mostly water,
like the sea beside me,
I move, shaped and shaper,
imbued with microplastics, neoplastic,
stochastic.
Moirae
In the summer
local ponds fill with algae,
small clumps
group in tapestries of green,
fractured by
spiderweb separations or open spaces
through which dark water shows.
From a plane window
I see tinkered geometries
in lime, moss, and ivy
that form between
cloud shade and hedges.
And through this god’s eye
is laid bare our push to grow
and in unforeseen links,
how we reap what we sow.
____________
Edward Lees is an American who lives in London. During the day he works to help the environment and in the evenings he writes poetry if his daughters permit it. His poems have been accepted for publication in Sparks of Calliope, Moonpark Review, and Amethyst Review.
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