Along the path the wild-flowers grow,

echoes of a childhood's wilderness.

Profusion of weeds and woodland

and product of bird-scattered seeds.

The myriad colours - cerise, mustard, daisy-white,

berries, red and dripping from the trees;

dandelion yellow, huge trumpted convolvulus,

the purple thistles, 'egg and bacon' at my feet -

and blackberries, for picking - child's delight;

white buddleia among the nettle-flowers;

the blue of meadow cranesbill mingles with hogweed,

white garlic past its best, Impatiens, Tansy, knapweed,

catkins, comfrey, red canary grass,

rhubarb flavoured butterbar and blood red poppies.

Cerise rush of rhododendron, pride of any park,

yet unexpected at the resting of the ways.

 

Caught between nature and commerce the river now speeds on

as the grey clouds follow and the waste heaps come to view.

Walkers, runners, cyclists, rustle past

threepenny-worth of history by three.

The river runs its course and I run mine,

into the vast commercial maze.

The black cloud follows me,

swallows and engulfs me

as I vainly seek the once-clear paths

now lost to building sites.

I reach the Playhouse Cafe drenched -

my dreamwalk turned to nightmare.

 

© Patricia Batstone 2007 reproduced with permission of the author