Growth Poem by Thomas Golding

GROWTH

Clouds pass birds fly
while you waste your time
ponderously pondering
the smoggy hills the ways of man
and other improbabilities
preferably watch the wind
bend the grass
you should have cut some time ago
or that suicidal bumble bee
trying to land
on a swinging thistle flower
she/it has made it
that noisy helicopter pilot
descending on the air-port
couldn't fly like that.

Those weeds so-called in flower
cursed by generations
but pleasing to my eye
as any well loved plant
in the neighbour's garden
that lady would never admire
the pattern on a dock leaf.
Now a thistle down corps de ballet
from Giselle perhaps
or the Little Swans in flight
one performance only
as they briefly swirl and loft.
Remember laughing at your mother's
tales of fairy dresses
what is reality anyway?
I did learn to make them dance mother.