There is little life here

There is little life here

Even with its variety

The vibrancy of colour

With which it seeks to tempt

The wayfarer into making

False assumptions.

Lush flowers hang low

Their heads nod as if to say

‘Please stop a while

Breath in the fragrance

Let it please you

My essence will astound,

Its languor will refresh

The aroma, still the savage

Beating of your restless heart,

Bring it peace

Fill it with the wonder

Of my beatitude

Praise me

As I bow in supplication

To you’

It would be easy to belong

Dissolve into the mystery

Of diversification

Even as hopes shrink

The false promise

Of cultured arboretums

Manufactured Edens

Isolated oases

Hanging gardens

At the edge of the world

Do nothing to stem the disease

There is little life here

Without root and branch

Systemic growth

The world is a wasteland

Of paradise islands

No more than decoration

Flowers on the coffin

Strewn across the graveside

Scattered in a churchyard

Showing little sign of rebirth

In the dapple down

Of sunlight

As they wait in slow decay

For the dying

That always follows

The pall of mourning

At the closing of a day.