Stooped over the gravel, back bent, knees crunching
Like the stones, I don’t resemble a God.
Yet as I prise the deep root of the dandelion,
Its tattered mane in gladiator hands,
A score of woodlice rupture from the pit
Where once they lived: some on their backs, prostrate
Like victims of circumstance, or genocide.
Silently vulnerable. Nearby, a blackbird
Bobs up and down, impatient for a feast.
Unblinking, wide-eyed dinosaur descendant,
Its mortgage overdue, with chicks to feed.
Somewhere, I’m sure such eyes are watching me.
For now, I hold the ruptured plant aloft,
The citizens scattering over one another:
Not cruel, but a disinterested God,
Who goes about the business of massacre
And upheaval as part of the mundane, necessary
Process of de-weeding a gravel drive.
A modern fable. But remember: at any one time, we are all of us the God, the blackbird, the woodlouse and the dandelion.