Roots I Onced Spied Clinging To A Soiled Gutter
I know no shrub,
by Graham Stone
Nor tree or blade of grass,
Of shrunken stub scarcely strewn
That isn’t a mere misplaced mass,
Nor doesn’t litter my concrete jungle.
Through the breeches of broken dead tarmac,
How queer it is to observe weeds so acutely cracking
And bushes that uproot sleepers along our forgotten tracks.
How strange I find it, we town folk who never seem to fall asleep
Clip, clip, clip away wantonly at unwanted green and prune and keep
Our lives so steady of smoke and fumes, with concrete-grey and suits so clean.
We have no room for leaves or buds, nor moss or weed to gleam, or ivy feet to creep.
Where in our diets of polluted perfume or traffic hells have we to permit a leap
Of nature’s feats into our humble jungle of office clocks, coffee breaks
And shareholder’s stock? Can we allow such a rustic edge to heap?
I think not, for the orchards and hills and nature’s dells,
Belong along winding roads of round rural meadows
Not guttering a forlorn existence in city swells.
So no, never can an Eden here ever be
When we have our insensitive streets
The wallows of our dejected people
And paths to tread our feet
I know no hollows,
No, - not for nature’s weeded sorrows.