Do clouds watch us?

Do clouds watch our mute trundling

and try to see shapes there?

Do trees recall a forgotten history

from our time-layered skins?

Do the cliffs examine our faults and

extrusions, to map old seismic shifts;

and does the moon count

our florid waxings and wanings?

The ravening flames of a fire

know the way we are consumed

by oxygen, and so does

the rust on the bridge.

The farm furrows understand

the planting of the seed potatoes,

and the miracle of pushing out,

head-butting to the light.

Does a graveyard feel a terrible sorrow

for a future that’s not yet chiseled in granite?

Does the headstone wait nervously

to be given a name?

Does the earth fear the worst:

does she wake, wide-eyed, at night,

frantic for us, for the humans,

and the race they can’t, yet, put right?

-         Philomena van Rijswijk 2020