Locked horns

The earth is hanging on a tree,
might even be punctured –
a tired football.

The cow is lost up a mountain,
escaping from the sea 
like a phantom.

All that’s left is a small rock,
so let’s head there –
a wasted prayer.

It’s staring us hard in the face,
longing us to make a change
like a desperate priest.

There are layers of meanings,
this collage of earth, wind and sea –
a tapestry for life.

The trees are our lungs,
their corridor our rib cage
like a green embrace.

Just look at the longing in that face,
horns curling in contortion –
a last resort.