Pulse

The grass is soft and moist beneath me. Flowers, blooming in vibrant colours, surround the little glade where I lay. Tall oaks shadow the edges of the clearing, but here in the centre I can feel the life-giving warmth of the morning sun on my back.Pressing my ear to the ground, I can hear thumping, rhythmic and musical. I want to believe it is the heartbeat of Mother Earth that I hear. I want to believe her pulse is reaching out to me from far below the thin crust of dirt on which we humans live.Sadly, I am only too aware that it is not Gaia’s pulse calling to me. As I sit up and look closer at my surroundings, I notice with jaded eyes that the leaves on the trees are diseased, the flower buds wilting from lack of nourishment.The pulse that I hear is the pulse of man-made machines moving ever close. This little glade, where I have found so much peace and contentment in my life, is doomed. Marked for death to make way for yet another concrete monstrosity. The kind that has taken over what used to be beautiful countryside.Gaia’s heart has been stilled. We, her children, have killed her. I rest my head once more against her breast, filled with fear, and shame. My tears mingle with the dew drops beneath my head. It is not an adequate sacrifice, but I no longer know what will bring back her gentle pulse.

© Alison Pearce 2008

Pulse

Alison Pearce

Logan Central, Australia

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Artist's Description

Flash fiction for “Gaia-The Living Planet”

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