In this city of weight
the green still grows
between the cracks,
thumbing its way over
the page bent by heavy
feet in a mission
to subjugate.

And By George was it
made on many fronts, over
people and Loves and living
breathing plants.

And it was sanctioned
by divine right and
was right therefore to give
it a name and then we
owned it (closed it)
lock and key discarded
in the briny
by a crested hat
of Vanity.

The tree bent itself in agony as we trod
these so-called ‘weeds’
to Oblivion.

But our sequestered Isle
never glimmered more than
aeons past, the green took
hold
and folding linen sheets of men,
Sewed life into earth
and then
again began the harvest of
the blue-beamed joy which
mirrors every echo
of the silent boy:

who steps amidst his
game of tiles
to see green-fingered
Gaia thumb her way  up
here where oxygen-echos (clear
like music beneath an
openness which cannot name)
abound, abound, abound
in brightness thereby found.

In this light 
we dissolve.
and resolve our selves to
the wisdom of a weed
In between.