We turn to find another way,
This road much travelled as the rest.
We stall and baulk at the thought of change,
Demand a lesser, softer, sham progress.
We search the hedgerows looking for a secret
We think is lost, a rumour of a knowledge
We forgot. Even while the farmer checks the Hawthorn,
Predicting clement weather when everything grows
My friend grows ragwort in her garden,
She makes no secret of it.
We are the seconds turning