Commonality 

 

I had this conversation with the mother of my spouse,

And viewed the garden that she tends to gentrify the house,

We came to the conclusion that we never would agree,

About the brave and various forms that nature gives for free.  

 

There’s glory in the chaos of the wild and wanton things,

The greenfinch in the hedgerow the buzzing wasp that stings,

The burdock and the nettle stems that green the pastures edge,

The reeds within the flowing beck, the meadowsweet and sedge.

 

Some take delight in butterflies, in bats and martin’s flight,

In fallen pellets near the trees where owls have come at night,

The crane flies even have their place in rounding nature’s plan,

A chaos not contaminate by all the wit of man.

 

And yet we need our order and our order binds the space,

No corner for the daisies in a green but perfect place,

No sanctuary for buttercups or rosebays stunning tower,

No kind collective of the fields protecting bird and flower.

 

And so I raise my cause-celebre, my passion in the grass,

A little thing a seasons hope but one I’ll not let pass,

For out there in profusion is a treasure bright as gold,

That cheered me as little child, and comforts now I’m old.

 

Pernicious and perennial, a pest of baser birth,

Expunged from better company and poisoned from the earth,

Dug up and scarred and scarified, dissected dried and burned,

She still returns to haunt the land untroubled and unlearned.

 

I’ve seen her on the mountaintops of distant foreign lands,

And bordering the ocean in the ever-shifting sands,

The desert edges know her touch and welcome her embrace,

And in the very sunlight is the beauty of her face.

 

For in her commonality she blesses town and vale,

No light beneath a bushel here, no candle burning pale,

Just burning summers bright and brave and hope and honey sweet,

A miser’s treasure for us all set free beneath our feet.

 

And what would be in winters end without her first full flush,

What else can conjure Pan’s wild tune so profligate and lush?

What else can stir the simple soul and raise our eyes to god,

Than she who springs eternal new from every vacant sod.

 

And so my commendation and my honouring and peace,

My comfort, consolation, benediction and release,

I gaze out of my window and pour blessings on the hour,

When I behold the glories of the dandelion flower.