This poem started as a handful of scribbles during a meeting of the Boundary Way Writers Group in February 2022. I am part of the Boundary Way Writers – which is nothing short of ‘modern’, since the group of nature writers is based in Wolverhampton, around the Boundary Way allotments, but hey ho, this is 2022, we’re still in a pandemic and life, at least a good portion of it, happens on Zoom.
Thus, a Scottish poet can quite easily join the folk down in Wolverhampton for their monthly writing sessions.
I like this poem. It turned into something I am quite proud of. Now, it has also found a lovely home in the ‘heather’ anthology of Scottish writing & art. The book launch will take place tomorrow, 6pm, at the Baskwell Arts Gallery in Edinburgh and I can’t wait to read this piece in front of a live audience.
I spread wild meadow seeds
like my life depends
on this misunderstood and underrated,
understated capsule wardrobe of improbabilities.
You call them weeds.
I imagine each little sphere, each ovule
enters the soil with a thundering roar.
Hope beyond hope,
I scatter the lion’s breath of foreverness,
mostly, though, noteverness…
Birds feed on my wild
at their tiny heart’s content
long before that thundering roar
has the slightest chance to soar.
You mock my relentless optimism.
no matter how small, insignificant, raw,
riddled with never, ever,
ignore life’s ruthless impossibilties,
the too hot, then too cold,
way too deep and dark to unfold,
there’s a promise, a world,
in all of them.
Don’t you know?
The wild will always grow wilder.
and then, trust me again,
trust each little sphere, each ovule
to flourish, explode, shoot up like fireworks,
here, there, what the heck where.
Some will burst concrete
with a stubborn mop of softest honey sweet blooms.
That’s how you take over the Earth for good,
with an all you can eat buffet,
an open invitation
and not just for the pretty ones.
Every beast welcome.
feast on my wildest roar!