the tiny green thistle sneaks through grey concrete a pavement sown with cracks surrenders to new life
(not broken—just beginning)
heads hidden in the hustle don’t look up at the heavens the flurried footsteps trample, too hasty to look down
(not worthless—just unseen)
but the tiny green is there amidst the giant of the city when modern streets fall silent the ageless forests roar
(not passive—just waiting)
we think she came before but she lives beyond the future as present in the trailing clouds as in the urban sprawl
Nature never left (here she grows tall)
By Louder Than The Storm writer Emma Turner.
