No one in their right mind while wandering
lonely as a cloud would proclaim they had spied
a host of scrawny weeds upon the hillside
and break into a jig. Yet weeds have their worshipers.
You can scour the internet and dig up poems,
odes to weeds, panegyrics. They are the bones
of the earth. Wordsworth got in first, that’s all.
But his daffy little poem is not the last word.
The weeds will rise up, their heretical, skewed beauty,
tough as barbed-wire, will find its bards.
It had been bugging me for months so I took a clipping down to the Garden Centre.
What’s it called? I asked. What’s its botanical name?
I didn’t much like the sound of it.
So I asked its common name.
Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, the man said.
I very much liked the sound of that.
so I went home and dubbed it with my royal ruler.
Henceforth you shall be known as Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, I announced with a clipped classy accent.
It sounded like a song.
Like something from ‘Revolver’.
I want to photograph the galahs
clowning on the bare limbs
of the Norfolk pines
but the buggers won’t keep still
racing around like particles
inside a Hadron Collider.
Just as you line up a couple
They’d be elsewhere.
All I needed was a panoramic shot
But then they’d be off
Across the river, raucous as a footy crowd..
Better off snapping flowers,