When I were a boy, a nipper, a kid
wildflowers on a concrete waste
were always blindingly yellow, for me.
Flowers rooted in the cracks along the road
for me, the yellow-bloomed, only for me
whether I was hungry
or stuffed to the hilt, which was rarely,
a slash of yellow beneath the sun
was reason enough to have fun.

Later, we prisoners saw our lady Sunne
and we gazed in awe,
seeing what we saw was really always there:
the beauty that is everywhere
in this thin air, ragged flowers bloomed
for me, only for me.

Life crawls out beneath man’s
deadly abominations: plastic,
concrete castrations.
One day clear streams
will run into these brooks
passing beneath the ample May blossom
where dappled sunlight lights our way
towards the hidden groves of bluebells
hidden away, where we dreamed of the secret
garden where roses bloom in wintertime
and footsteps’ fading tread into the rose garden.
Life lifted, magically, into the spontaneous sublime
in this raggedly mind of mine.

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