Gone To Seed
is soon unpicked.
It is difficult to live young
and uninterrupted in this city
when you are pushed to new places,
your relationships as sudden and consuming
as algal blooms, as delicate
I can’t say we’ll meet again;
a fact we spent weeks with.
We hoped knowing would be enough
to turn our aches lukewarm
like tea left too long to cool.
When I hesitate at the door
you tell me heartbreak is a fever,
that I need to starve
to break it.
A seed drifts on the breeze, skittering and skirling on its wayward path. There is nowhere here for it to take root. The city sprawls in every direction, offering only tarmac and concrete as a bed. The seed starts to drop, but another gust of wind give its flight new life and it carries on its journey.
The seed had no agency. It is at the mercy of the elements. It can only go where it is taken, land where it falls. It takes each flurry and twist as it comes, never questioning its fate or struggling against the forces that shape its movements. It does not know where it will eventually come to rest, nor does it care.
Nature has a purpose, but this seed is unlikely to fulfil it. That doesn’t stop its progress through the twilight, though. It floats on, ready to burst forth in all its tremendous potential if given the slightest chance. All it needs is a crack in the pavement, a sharp left turn towards the park, a bird to snatch it from the air and deposit it later somewhere life might find a way.
Watch the tiny seed as it wends its way. Invest in its future. For, if such a tiny thing can survive in this hostile world, surely there is hope for us all.
Thistles have bloomed in the woodland clearing,
deep amethyst hues have faded to palest lavender.
Fritillary butterflies flit amongst rosette buds-
their spiny leaves, coveted by cobwebs.
An autumn breeze relinquishes the thistledown;
seedlings anchor featherlike plumes,
which glide upon breaths of air,
their dispersal evincing a moment in time.