Poetry

Reclaimed

It’s amazing the places flora can grow.

An old boot cast onto the riverbank,

now home to grass and daisies.

A rusted bike, complete with basket,

that holds a sign for a local cafe

obscured by ivy fingers.

A school bus long since rolled onto its side

by people with nothing better to do

has become a greenhouse for wildflowers, mushrooms

and lichen.

And abandoned buildings, whole cities even,

thought to be left only for ghosts and radiation,

have instead become forests.

Concrete, toxic jungles

now just

jungles.

 

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Poetry

Homecoming

The field is green. So green that it blinds me,

taking over my senses with its scent.

Grass, wildflowers, heather. Pine

off in the distance. And you.

All earth and petals, brambles and silky leaves.

You run your fingers through the long fluffy tails

reaching up to your hips, a smile lingering

at the corners of your mouth.

Welcome home, you say,

and I am welcomed by a cloud of

meadow browns and common blues.

Poetry

Pruning practices

I can see the roots

growing in the corners

of your eyes,

under the ground

where you think no-one will find,

and in my veins.

Oh, you hope

to hide from me, but

you don’t know

I can look inside myself.

I can cut you out

if I want to,

like a weed.

I can leave you to wither.

Would you like that?

Poetry

All potted up

I have a little seedling,

it’s just sprouted green leaves,

it waves about in the wind

and makes our cat sneeze.

 

I want to give it a home,

so I’ve found a neat brown pot

and filled it with earth

all the way to the top.

 

I’ll make a small hole

using an old lollipop stick

and put my seedling in it

so the stem grows nice and thick.

 

Then for the important bit,

I’ll need to give it a drink.

I heard rainwater’s best,

not just water from the sink.

 

After that, I’ll have to wait

and care for it with love,

only then will it flower

from its tender buds.

 

 

Poetry

Ripples

A ripple in a glass of water

can never leave the glass.

Yet if the glass ever cracks,

the water can push against it,

working away to force an opening.

Even if the gap it makes is only

wide enough for a trickle to escape,

sometimes that trickle is all that’s needed.

Seeping across the table,

weaving its way through discarded cutlery,

crusted salt and pepper pots

and past dusty, fine china plates

to the edge, where droplets form

ready to drip into the dry soil

filling the plant pot below.

The fresh seeds lying in wait

beneath the surface

will finally get

their spark of life.

 

Poetry

Spud Heart

Do you ever have those moments of delight

where something simple

yet unexpected happens?

Like when you think

you’ve harvested all the potatoes you planted,

only to be greeted the next year

by a fresh crop?

Or a plant you never knew

would flower

offers up delicate purple blooms overnight?

It’s these little things,

these pure moments of joy

that present the chance

to see life again.