Planet Texture Poem by Steve Gregory

Planet Texture



Like textured paper covered in sand
Like sheepskin warm to the touch
Tactile, fragile, easy to break
A sculpture in time, in line, to protect, respect.
Take a look at what you see, what you wear,
What you can be. Soft, hard, in-between
It’s texture at its best, worst, the only
Texture made for man, woman, child.
It’s sometimes wet. Sometimes dry. Hot
And cold, in-between seasons
Like human skin, animal fur, reptilian scales
Textured, for eternity, when all humanity
Wears her creations. Naked in winter,
Dressed beautiful for spring. Wearing a smile
In summer, and colours in the fall. The textures
Rise and fall, fall and rise. High peaks and
Low valleys, rivers run through and over,
Under and in-between, flowing like silken dresses
Down, down and down to the smooth and rippled
Sea. Textured for all, running in and out,
Warp and woof, woven as a fragile, tough
Planet. Machined as a mechanical, organised
Clockwork toy, that spins through time and
Space. Texture touched and ruffled with
A gentle hand, tailors hand that’s scarred
By the tough material used.
The warmth of hand spun yarn, woven
In to hand made weave that covers, protects,
Nurtures and matures through age to age.
The texture of earth in the shade of
The sun. Dark and light make the material
Change its hue, yet not its mode, it
Still gives warmth and is still soft and rough
To the touch. Life is supported, created and
Proportioned on this textured planet
That gives humanity its life, its death.
It’s just a shame that human vanity has
Started an earth destroying calamity.
The texture’s looking worn, with threads
Flying loose in the breeze. Holes have appeared
In the head and the foot, and it’s material
Is showing signs of lack, no care taken
Of the clothing that is worn to protect
From harm, in winter storm or high summer
Sun. Destruction is common place
For this ancient material, the texture is
Still the same, yet wearing thin in places
Earth is dying, crying, while humanity
Is denying that anything is wrong.
Textured like paper covered in sand,
Like sheepskin that’s been shorn too fast,
And ripped to a million tiny shards.
Earth’s textured coat is wasting, wasted, waste.
Because the wearers have neglected to
Repair the warp and woof over time
And texture has gone from clean, perfection to
Filthy, imperfection, that spoils the view, the touch
The eye. Earth has lost her colourful
Clothing and floats naked through the sky.

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