Spare thought for whats 'neath foot today, as you walk your daily toil.
Some call it dirt, some call it mud, but the nicest word is soil.
'Twas born to earth when ice and snow did act upon first rock.
And lived its life for countless
years through trouble, strife and shock.
But now some soils are dying, their life is in decline
We are treating soil so badly, I fear we've crossed a line
These days I think I hear a groan, when buried 'neath cement.
That's not the place
for soil to live! such end was never meant!
Soil must be, where air can breath and sun shine on its back.
It's "not being made no more" they say, and lost, it wont come back.
What makes it tick, is barely known. Its complex life is mystery.
We know that soil has died before, we read it in our history.
We know that Roman Empire fed where desert stands now empty
That Empires died when soil retired of giving up her plenty.
So what of us? we need to ask, do we show enough respect?
Will we decline to heed the call and stop this mad neglect?
Take time to kneel, take soil to feel, inhale her heaven scent.
Don't fear her dark or depth or stain or treat like excrement.
Tread light upon her back today and mind what lies
And think what kind of earth we want our children to bequeath
The source of food, the source of health and other lively things
Tis that which life returns at end, the well from which life springs.
William Considine 5th December