Did we then, pave over Paradise, lost to us now? The concrete jungle grew so fast, who knew that it would spread, disease-like, steamrollering every green thing in its way? Well, here you are, flat and dull and painted with your borderlines, your cartoon people and wheelchairs, all white and flaking. Conveniently maintained and close, with trees strategically tubbed in unusable corners, rootballs festering.
But stand still here, and counterpointing the slamming of car doors, the loading and unloading, there is a whispering, a conferring, a conspiracy of growing things. They will rise up unheeded through the false rock, breaking apart the conglomerate, encroaching on your edges. They will not be thwarted, but spread their dandelion leaves and their sap-song along every unguarded crack in what is after all only surface, conquerors once more, earth regained.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com