The ocean is filled up with broken dreams now,
it blows a tomb of hands all reaching out for the sky,
stone dictionaries in plastic bags,
agonise stone wings in ink gulls,
Whale Nation in a plastic bag, breaking like a heart,
blankets of exhausted geography.
The birds are filled with plastic too,
emblazoning emotions in empty bottles,
that never sink, that never hold you, imagine you in mercy.
To feel something, to decamp all the years, to feel something at this age.
The abandonment of light, the vale of light wanting to find something to shelter.
To find something to spotlight and live in,
out of the dark amber and to heaven in.
A nightfall within the living.
To keep going far, to be with the flowers who know the sunlight,
arms like ladders, handing out weather to remind you of livingness.
And you have to praise it anyway, cause it breaks you in two
the seven seas, a heavy metal lover man
the water stars and you all in a backwards birth.
Greta's poem in support of #passonplastic (https://skyoceanrescue.com/passonplastic/)