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EARTH TODAY by Sophie P, Year 10 Ripley St Thomas

The mist over the mountains
taught me that there is
beauty in the unknown,
And that you should keep walking
Even when you don’t know
where you’re headed.
The birds flapping their wings
On their first flight
Taught me to have courage
Even if you’re afraid of falling.
The setting and rising of the sun
Taught me that it is okay to rest
As long as you get back up
To try again.
The wildflowers taught me
To grow with perseverance
And bloom with grace.
This earth taught me
Kindness,
Forgiveness, and
Strength.
But this world only taught me
How to destroy it.

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The Run away land by Violet B, Year 9 Ripley St Thomas

I ran away from the grim face of society,
The dizzying climate of the city,
Moving my step towards tranquillity,
I stood there, letting it enter my soul,

How can beauty like yours be committed to live in this place,
I listen again to the whispering waves,
Music of nature, calming but so loud
The birds humming their silent songs,

Beauty is that which attracts your soul,
I reached a lonely spot were the sand meets sea,
The runaway land is the place to be,
Oh, Orkneys how you call to me.

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Once Upon a Time by Eva H, Year 7 Ripley St Thomas

Once upon a time, the world was luscious and green;
But now the world has changed; it’s really quite depressing.
I wish it could be like before, that would be refreshing.
Not to mention there’s hardly any trees, and people things its okay to pollute the seas.
There used to be plastic here and there, but now it’s almost everywhere.
The journey starts with you and me, let’s work together to set this world free.

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Environment Poem by Lucy T, Year 9 LGGS

Summer scurries in
On the edge of spring
Excited to take her place
Wildly spinning with grace
But then her timer runs out
And she has to dropout
For in twirls autumn
And she alters the mood
Leaf after leaf is barbecued
Until lastly falls winter
Comes in fast like a sprinter
A blanket spreads across the globe
The temperature drops
Exhausted from her work, she flops.

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The Great Oak – Sherwood Forest by Alan Smith

A single acorn fell, a millennium and some, ago,
With sun and light and rain I lived, survived.
Out lived my kind, now centuries long gone
Now I’m alone in silent majesty

I, this Great Oak, stand majestic
Amid my surrounding sylvan kind
I’ve been known to many Sherwood traveller,
Their shelter for a thousand years, and more.

Robin of Loxley passed my way,
First Earl, then outlaw he.
(Sheriff’s men rode close behind him),
He hid in my arms, in garb of Lincoln Green.

Pleasant peasant folk try their worldweary best
To survive ‘neath my canopy of green.
Truffle hunter’s sniffing dogs nuzzle fallen leaves,
While hunter dreams of that elusive earthbound gold.

Many times have I, this Mighty Oak, so strong,
Faced the worst, the very worst of seasons wrath.
I’ve seen springtime gales and summers burning,
Then autumn winds that foretell winter’s chilling white.

Now needing help from timbers that supports,
My ‘friends’ that keep me standing tall.
Fenced in, no one approaches, none come to stand by me,
No touch, no hugs, but dogs approach, still nuzzling leaves!

Though now I stand assisted,
I reign supreme o’er all I see before me.
Still standing tall in Sherwood, should reign another thousand years.
Who, mankind will be cut down first, me or thee?

That outcome, not what I want or wish,
Rather, we survive together, strong. We do belong
Together. Know this mankind, you need to change, and fast
Else, very soon, we’ll take that breath that could be our very last.

I, (and my kind), try hard for you,
That oxygen you need to live was ours, we gave it freely,
But with toxins that you and yours release to us
We can no longer guarantee to breath you life.

More than lip service and target setting is required,
Action is needed, and that action straight away, I tell you.
Else there will be no actions that you may take,
For all will be too late, then you and I await, our final ever nearing fate!

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Environment Poem by Zahra M, Year 7 LGGS

The environment what a beautiful place to be,
Trees swaying, waves crashing how nice to see
On an autumn morning the leaves are falling
The colours start to change
The cool breeze swirling around you
The leaves are thinner than a page
The squirrels rushing to find something to eat
In the countryside where the sound is only a buzzing bee
Or in the forest where the trees are whispering
Birds are singing and the leaves are dancing so far away
The environment what a beautiful place to be,
Near the coast where the waves are crashing against the shore
And the seagulls are chirping so much more
The hot desert that you never want to be
Goes on and on and never stops
The environment what a beautiful place to be

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Micro Gardens, Morecambe 9/22 by Charles Whitehead

Feel the weight of all the seeds
in a poppy head pour into your palm.
Touch multicoloured beans one by one.
Rock a box of seeds which slap side to side,
held in four hands, one person is deaf and non-verbal.

Exploring
Sharing
Discussing
Imagining
Making

The fabulous architecture of seed heads.
“I grew this, have some”: creating futures.
Gardens, farms, trade, distance, migration.
Trail of Tears, growing teff to make injera, sourdough from 8 square metres of city wheat.
Origami envelopes: repurposed paper to recycle again in compost.

Invited
Welcomed
Present
Diverse

Sitting on the grass.
Finding what interests you.
Experiencing what you find.
Seeds for yourself, for your child, for your family, for your friend.

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Ash by Weronika S, Year 9 LGGS

Ash.
The remains of leaves coat bare earth,
like smoke
and with it
tree-dwellers nest in trunks of bare trees,
their branches glazed with a frost
coaxing all into a wary slumber
while the forest holds its breath
impatient for the solaced arrival of spring.

Spring has sprung
and with it,
come times of consolation,
as life revives itself
from the deep doze that had enveloped it.
With plentiful warmth,
seeping through trees and into the ground
enveloping like a soothing blanket.
And with it,
comes new life.

Summer arrives,
and with it
unwelcome, stifling heat
soaking all in an uncomfortable warmth,
while waves of stifling heat
batter the land.

Autumn comes
and with it
the beginning of the frost.
Preparation has begun
and tree-dwellers work at their stores
and with them works the whole forest
as unfathomable cold sweeps through it,
enveloping the land in a
widespread shiver.
Whirls like shrunken tornadoes
stir the earth,
blanketed by leaves
in shades of orange and brown hue.
While hibernators shuffle in their dens
preparing for their winter sleep
bringing consolation
which takes them away
until warmth swathes the land,
while the leaves turn to
Ash.

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Ribble Valley. by James Walmsley

On finer days I’ve walked this country,
pondered nature’s beauty intently.
Trodden paths through wood and field,
and revelled at the delights revealed.

Sweet honeysuckle a magnificent tree,
perhaps a wasp a humble bumble bee.
A harvest mouse a plain old shrew,
maybe the remains of what once grew.

Silver streams so blissfully flow,
through vale and woodland grove.
Natures canvas a wonderous sea,
such a gift bestowed upon thee.

Aromatic scents of ripening fruits,
flocks of birds like trained recruits.
Swoop from above and take their fill,
then rise and fly as is their will.

As evening beckons in dappled light,
and sunlight slips into starry night.
Tawny Owls hoot and Foxes screech,
please tread ye gently I beseech.

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This Mossland Will Conquer by Lorna Smithers

‘Chat Moss brast… first corrupting with stinkinge water Glasebrooke, and so Glasebrooke carried stinkinge water and mosse into Mersey water, and Mersey corrupted carried the roulling mosse, part to the shores of Wales, part to the isle of Man, and some unto Ireland.’
— John Leland, 1526

This mossland will conquer its bunds
by the power of cottongrass and rain and sphagnum
it will defy the ditches and the drains

we built once upon a time and now block
with plastic piling, bunds and dams, malls and spades.
This mossland will conquer its bounds

growing millimetre by millimetre a year
it will conquer Little Woolden, Great Woolden,
Astley, Worsley, Bedford, and Barton.

Flooding the Glazebrook and the Mersey
it will wash up on the shores of Ireland then riding oceanic
currents it will conquer every continent.

This mossland will conquer the world,
the universe and everything beyond the human imagination.
This mossland will finally conquer us.

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The Singing Stones by Bean Sawyer

Risen from boggy moor,
prehistoric monument of spotted dolerite
points to the stars.

They sing, they sing!
Bedd Arthur, ring!

Along the foggy golden road
sleeping Draig stretches
to the Irish sea.

Clacking bells, knocking bones!
Arthur’s knights, turned to stone!

I will follow ghosts
through mud and mire
to plant my hands in this ancient land.

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For My Belle by Bean Sawyer

Until you came into my life,
I’d forgotten the night had a voice.
Barking fox and hunting owl shout,
while snail and moth whisper.
Trees hush me a lullaby like a creeping tide
shifting pebbles on the shore.
You held me while it spoke,
hiding harvestmen in your folds.
Wrapped in you I slip into wild dreams
waking to the tidings of crows,
while lazy dawn shadows dance
on your canvas cloak.

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Morecambe on a winter’s day by Rose J, Year 7 LGGS

A dog runs on the forsaken beach,
The sea is distant, out of reach,
The sea and sky meet in a symphony of grey,
This is Morecambe on a winter’s day.

Looking back towards the town,
Chip shop litter, strewn around,
A chip become a seagull’s prey,
This is Morecambe on a winter’s day,

The setting sun casts a fiery glow,
On the bare beds where spring flowers will grow,
And an empty playground where no children play,

This is Morecambe on a winter’s day.

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To the Sea by Bryony Rogers

Your flesh stretches, reaches for the midday sun
through laughing pores and fingertips that trace the line of my arm. A song
is singing us, ancient melodies

through hand and voice and heart. A song from across dry valleys
and derelict places, singing out
towards the sea.

We don’t make it to the sea, this time – but my tongue
tastes salt on the edge of your neck, finds water
deep in your mouth. I breathe

more. Our

fingers dance each other’s palm, while a bird traces an invisible wind. I rest
against you, feathering your skin
with kisses. None of it lasts – not the way pain
or stone

last, hidden
deep in the pores, in the forgotten cells, down
where the roots cling. It

changes –

the way pain and stone change; washed over by the incoming tide, released
in the light of morning, made
whole.

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Here in my hand by Bryony Rogers

Here in my hand:
An absolute beginning place. The seed of a flower
That will blossom in the Springtime. The earth,
on my fingertips.

The wind passing through,
The wet of the rain,
Blowing over, blowing over. This night is the deepest of deep,
Your heart is blossoming.

This night is the deepest of deep, your heart
Is found here. Many days ago, the moon slipped over horizons
Shaping a future in the sky
Shadows on the sea.

There are waves
Beckoning, beckoning me home,
Your heart is a wide horizon.
My life is
a wide horizon.

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A Good Year for Painted Ladies by Alison Riley

Sat around the kitchen table, talk is of the weather.
We cross fingers, toes, eyes, for dry days for making hay.
A line of unruly wellies skulk near the door like sheepdogs
Not used to being in the house.

Hours slide by like mud hosed from the yard.
July rain lashes down. Lashes across to be precise.
Billowing like bed sheets on a line.
The forecast’s better for later in the week.

It’s been a hot, wet summer.
You don’t want grass sticking to your boots like it has.
We make silent promises to any god that’s listening
For a clear run for cutting, tedding, baling.

A plate of home-made buns lands on the table.
It’s nigh on impossible to worry about anything
With a mug of hot tea in one hand, a bun in the other.
Still, it’s been a good year for painted ladies.

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Conker by Sonia Phillips

Her bright brown eyes recognise their glossy twin
A jewel among bronze, ruby, jade-coloured leaves
Half foetal, within its skin-soft, silk-smooth womb.

Reverently, she eases and prizes the seed from inside its spiky shell
Then triumphantly treasures this marvellous marble of life,
Fingerprints scooping intricately across its glossy iris.

She knows the world encased here: an eagerly awaiting tree
Patient, but ready to breathe life into the world, the girl who sees
The baby victory she holds is as precious as gold.

But the others are wounded. Puppet strings bleed through holes,
Missiles aimed gleefully at their sisters and brothers.
Conquerors, explosives, bombs.

She silently tiptoes through the debris with her fist tight around
This free little hopeful glimmer of peace. She finds
A soft secret space underground and tucks it away to grow,

Take root, branch out, be fruitful, fulfil its living destiny:
The only way to win.

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VIEW FROM THE LANE by Julia Patten

I marvel at green field and tree,
But soon I spy light industry.
I gaze along the far skylines
At swinging arms of white turbines;
At rolling hills and charming dales
Spoilt by major roads and rails;
At masts and pylons standing tall
By meadow, moor and grey stone wall.

I see hens and how they’re fed.
They cluck and peck inside a shed.
Once in the yard and strutting free
They’re now confined by lock and key.
My ears hear farm machinery
That drowns out silent scenery.
And rumbling tractors down the lane
More noisy than an aeroplane.

My country stroll is nearly done.
It really hasn’t been much fun.
The hand of man is everywhere.
For wild and wondrous, look elsewhere.

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Adam Decay by Anthony Padgett

We, spectres of intelligence,
We loathe ourselves!
We, you, me, us, our – them?
We are free, belonging nowhere.
Itemised, categorised,
Cognised – uncogniscious,
Anonymous and forgotten.
We care for the opinion of the ignorant
Our minds are our hearts and we feel with things.
With things we feel.
Goodbye green trees in open spaces.
Green we hate Adam Decay, Green we hate ourselves.
We, you, me, us, our – them?
We are free, burning dimly.
Green Decay, Green Adam Decay, itemising…
Ignored statements
X Adam has decayed off the rails
Y Adam is green
Z his rails still screech.
Loud is the taste of silent thoughts,
Soft is the screech of the buckled rails.
We complex beasts in our finery.
We hateful screaming rocks.
We loathe ourselves.
We, you, me, us, our – them?
We are free, fading fast.
Adam Decay,
Adam,
D-E-C-A-Y.
A flood of remorse,
An edifice of sheep.
We are ignorant, Adam,
We are ignorant of ignorance.
Inscrutable from all angles,
But we of ignominious ignominity,
We of and from all angles,
D-E-C-A-Y.
A flood of remorse,
An edifice of sheep.
We – Loathe – Ourselves.

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Exodus by Ruth Osman

“Exodus: movement of Jah people!” – Bob Marley

That night,
we heard the wind
shaking the trees awake.

When we arose,
they were gone.

Broken earth
where they once stood,
stalwart.

Bloated silence
where birds once praised
a triumphant sun,

now labouring
up the sky’s stairs,
bilious light oozing
through the thickening air.

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Ode to Pendle by Susan Osborne

Pendle oh Pendle
Shrouded in mist,
Emerging from the heat haze
Where sunrays kissed
Shadows on the hillside
Under grey blue skies,
Commanding the horizon
With ominous majesty.

Etched in memories
That familiar presence,
Soothing yet tainted
With History’s essence.

Oh how I miss when it did feed
Wild imagination of youth in me.