We're to edit this book, not read and discard it,
not, heaven forbid, burn it.
But a bed of nettles can't be approached
and the thorny bramble stands impenetrable,
we're to soften the edges of this picture
not whitewash it all, frame included.
Though the stench is strong and the danger clear
our minds, already gardening, work fast.
We're to strum this guitar as a student
not polish it like a tone-deaf owner.
With the green hosts of Spring inviting Sun
set up the bird-table and they will come.
We're to channel the waters, not clog the stream
nor drown nor dessicate neighbouring fields.
We're to wake up yet continue to dream
we're the balm for old wounds that cannot heal.