PLANT LIFE
First
is time.
Then
a spatter of white
lichen
like bird droppings
dotted
on the hot black lava rocks.
In
more time
Always
time
The
lichen curls and colours
coalesces,
spreads slow and greedy,
silver,
yellow, green and gold.
There
is time.
Always
more time
Thick
stems, waxy leaves,
moist-bodied
survival systems,
will
shrink and hide and wait.
Again
there is time.
Always
time. More time
A
dome of delicate Fibonacci sticks
netted
over a tenacious lace of roots
retains
a green oval leaf and a tiny yellow star.
In
time it will be a green half sphere covered with faint blossom.
There
is more time
Always
time and then more time.
The
silky, insidious grasses lie down humbly
ground-pressed
by wind, seeded heads nodding, nodding.
Grass
is life for humans who have so little time.
Sun-blackened,
broken-backed by the meagre harvest,
their
empty stomachs rage and ache. Soon
they will be without time.
“As
for man, his days are as grass: As
a flower of the field, so
he flourisheth.”
For
a time.
