During yesterday’s solitary bus ride
I spotted a neat square of uncut grass
fenced off by eight foot hoardings on each side.

I thought of all the creatures that reside
within its micro cosmos of wild flowers
and flora that we classify as weeds

between the storage warehouse and the towers—
a handsome piece of London real estate
waiting for omniscient developers

to pull the trigger, promptly decimate
the knee high jungle when plans are approved.
I’ll pass no judgement, nor compare its fate

to that universal size of Wales
that diggers bite from virgin forestry.
A mental image of the gods prevails,

viewing all the suffering on display
within the corporeal populace,
something briefly glimpsed from far away,

from the top of their celestial bus.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Jul 17, 2012 @ 09:11:30

    I’ve just spent ages trying to write a poem in memory of Amy Winehouse. I wanted it to show how the press always painted a negative picture of her life and never offered encouragement to this singer beset by her own addictions. I failed.

    It’s depressing to watch you knock out consistently brilliant poems day after day…
    it makes me wonder why I bother.

    This poem is a case in point. You manage to fill this poem with so many ideas and insights. I like the comparisons of scale between this urban plot and the rain forest.
    They will doubtless build luxury apartments, unaffordable to most Londoners


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 1,501 other followers

%d bloggers like this: