Urban Spring-time

Urban Springtime

Petals and broken glass

Line the festal way.

Accidental emeralds gleam

Amid silken pink blossom

Trodden underfoot,

Sodden and sad:

Softness and sharpness

Mingling in the fallen trash.

Ten green bottles

Smashed against my wall,

Ten green bottles

Didn’t accidentally fall.

Drifts of pink petals

Candy-floss coloured

              Blow lazily in hot wind

Drying to nothingness

In a few days, gone.

Some rubbish I can live with.

I wrote this poem some years back when we lived in a large village in the Midlands. It had been a big change from the tiny village in the middle of nowhere, where I could walk at night with only starlight and moonlight to guide me, and where the nights were so quiet I could hear the wind in the wheat on a summer night.

It’s been a bigger and more shocking change to move to a port town, and even walking the ancient woodlands a few minutes’ walk from my home I can still hear the roar of traffic, see the rubbish and mourn the damage.

We are stewards and we have not done our job very well.

2 thoughts on “Urban Spring-time

  1. When my niece and nephew came to America from China they asked if they could walk on the grass.
    They were accustomed to walking on concrete and dodging broken glass. They thought the grass was dangerous somehow.


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