This could be the year of the poets and the prophets.
The politicians and profiteers have failed us, the powerful have had their way.
We’ve bowed down to the fear-mongers and fat-cats, who’ve divided us and made it pay.
This could be the year of the poets and the prophets, the artists and the authors, the makers and the movers, the strange and the sublime.
Through them old songs can be reborn and new storylines be told.
Through them there’ll be a place for poetry to fill and shift the soul.
They could paint the future rich in colours still not mixed,
and speak the whispered love language of heaven in our midst.
Could they teach us to abandon the desperate greed for power,
And seek a simple beauty in the patterns of a flower.
To stand and watch the sea breathe deep against the broken land,
And the whitening of the knuckles as we hold another’s hand.
Could this be a year of art, of story, verse and song,
Of the dreams in colourful compassion we’ve painted for so long.
A year of risk and possibility, of creativity and love.
Of tales and tunes that tell of hope and launch us high above.
To look upon this world we walk with eyes that see the new.
So let the poets weave their spells and the prophets speak of you.