Air trails its fingers through the surface
brushing waves of shade and stripes of light.
Grass is elastic in the way it sways.
Paintbox splashes mixed into the green
without blending; cornflowers chips of sky,
sun in the marigold, moon in the ox-eye daisy:
‘Where to find the ox-eye daisy:
Roadside verges, meadows and waste ground’
so we limit pure lives to poor scraps of earth
to be coated in car grime or to wait in hope
that developers may delay another month;
time while the bees feed, time to set seed,
we reap the harvest of our values now,
no butterflies this year, no harvest mouse,
no joy. Our children live in caves.
New meadow sown is our apology, our promise
to do better. It will grow a million habitats.
Forgiving spirits, let daisies seed our hope.