Weed we spit: anarchist we accuse Some snap stems, discard seed grasp leaves, dig dirt until each root is forcibly freed, but many use herbicide for ease "Die, weed, die we cry with glee. Double dahlias are what we need. Chemical feed will help us 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 to where labour is cheap. Concrete and steel remain, obsolete. Filth tipped into rivers fails to biodegrade. Far away from plastic parade and urban decay, wide roads surrender to narrow lanes, white lines give way to green blades. Hedgerows exhibit kinship between living species; yet earth's tilth is tipped to sickness, trees strain to clean 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