A plant’s wrong ways, take
shape on chancing breeze.
Anarchy rises to sap
at butchered lands.
Outsiders, friendless
purpose unknown.
Immigrants from the without.
We are frightened,
held rigid
by the different beauty
of their strange song.
These alien ways
like a wild yeast that
comes to a baker’s call.
Fresh, different
much raised in
our estimations.
Re-wilding gods,
stand to let
the ground grow
as it will.
A flower meadow
not a lawn.
Bees see it,
twice as sweet.
Flown, travelling seeds
on wind blown songs.
Till the loam of
a stranger’s town.
Taking the balance
of a natural palette.
And soon we will have a place
of rare delight.
Watered with joy and tears,
cooled by butterflies.
©️ Dai Fry 12th May 2020.