Weed, you spit. Anarchist, you accuse. You snap stems, discard seed, grasp leaves, dig dirt until each root is forcibly freed, or maybe you apply herbicide for ease "Die, weed, die you cry with glee. Double dahlias are what we need. Chemical feed will raise crowds of blowsy blooms from cultivated seed" Bees leave to seek pollen that they can reach Along steamy streets pockets of green tickle pavements reaching to conceal heaped waste which feigns innocent sleep Beyond greedy shops, magnates' dreams emigrate overseas to where labour is cheap, and workers too poor to complain. Industrial relics rot in the rain, Britain's shamed industry, obsolete. Filth, obscenely tipped into rivers, fails to biodegrade. Far from plastic parade and urban decay, wide roads surrender to narrow lanes, white lines submit to green blades, and hedgerows exhibit kinship between living species, yet earth's tilth tips into sickness; trees strain to erase our mistakes and seasons struggle to progress. A frayed leaflet flitting in the wake of a chance breeze asks: Which Path Will You Take?
©Jane Paterson Basil