Paul Spencer, 2000
This planet is a rock that boils and churns
Continents float as the liquid turns
Our island bobs like a raft at sea
Or loose debris
And somehow life remains
This island's made of solid stone
As dry as a crow-pecked bullock bone
But a layer on top like a vellum skin
Both soft and thin
Supports us all alone
The soil holds on with a mighty grip
To giant roots so the trees won't slip
It clothes itself in vibrant green
A fragrant screen
Through which the waters drip
The soil, the earth, in slow routine
Gives forth a beauty so serene
A person who such splendour saw
Subdued with awe
Might think some god had been
But looking close it can be found
The beauty springs from underground
A million living creatures dance
In every ounce
And miracles abound
These living things are made of soil
The earth in which they live and toil
And there the earth receives and gives
The planet lives In fine and fragile soil