Perhaps it is the framing of the view,
the sharp clean edges of the window,
that reframes a point as art.

Curved tufts of uncut grass fringe
the greenish pond. This morning black
but heat and sun have catalysed

some underworld reaction –
all has thickened. Palette leaves,
like solar panels, tilt themselves up

and proud of the surface, their stalks
like the slender heels of wide green shoes
while there, nesting, a dinosaur egg, a bud.

Three years after digging, filling, planting,
three years of waiting, right now right there,
huge as an upturned pike’s mouth, basking in sun

unconcerned with the water snails, the scum,
the amniotic soup in which it sits.
This is no Monet lily. Soon it will roar.

National Writing Day, 21st June 2017 


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