The Garden

 

I had a dream I saw

the Milky Way glowing

green above the hills;

always before a mottled band of

wood-smoke blue, a bridge of

silver mist and dust mote stars

gazed at from underneath,

now airbrushed gentle shades

of jade and lime, with here

and there a brighter knot

of pinprick suns emerald-hued,

jewels strewn and scattered over

night’s dark cloak.

 

What could it mean? I wondered,

staring at the forest green galactic

core smouldering in the summer sky

as olive beams of starfire thrust

thru my eyes, sharp as grass blades.

It is alive! I realised, as if I’d heard

the Great Galaxy herself speak

into my ear; it is the future and

the Worlds of Man are many,

the stars painted sea green, seen

through blizzards of living, breathing globes

a’swirl around them, each called Home

by a billion human souls…

 

Gazing up I saw Man’s far future home –

not Earth, no solitary world of stone

and fragile shell of air; a vast spiral garden,

sprinkler-spray arms awash with life,

blazing kryptonite-bright within

the echoing void –

 

If we are wise, and do not hide here

on the smoke-choked Earth for

a generation more. While bored shuttles fly

into a sky where only one space station

turns, their pilots yearn for a chance

to dance on Luna’s ashen plains; to raise

a fluttering flag on the open range

of Barsoom’s rocky land; to stand

on Vesta’s stony crust and thrust

their hands into its shattered soil,

blood boiling with the urge to carry on,

surge out into Sol’s system, pass

Sedna’s ancient charcoal mass and strike out

for the glittering stars beyond…

 

If we are weak, and do not seek a new frontier

to meet and beat and fear then all we

have achieved will surely die.

All Mankind’s art, fine poetry and prose,

his music, magic and myth will

perish in the flash of an asteroid’s strike,

or wither and die when Sol herself

surrenders to Time, her shining

candleflame heart snuffed out without a care

by a Universe that does not know we’re there…

 

So we must push on, go out into

that unforgiving dark, carrying in our

monkey hands the spark of all Man has

achieved. The seeds of civilisation must be

planted

  

 

© Stuart Atkinson 2006

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