Mugwort

‘Mugwort, of magic properties, next to the posts. Bright day, the new bank of the new earth in the shade now as the sun moves lower. You’re a blur, a long exposure and the wind. Your softness belies the roots that hold, and the posts, they fenced those off, protecting you from the earth movers, catapiller tracks, scraping.

Your offspring, blown on the wind, set into mud, on the bank, water, drain and ditch, settled and grew. Tar smell in the air, the heat close by, but you stayed. Roots reaching further. Tarmac now. And road paint to mark lines for ordered parking. But away from here, your seeds are germinating and their own roots find more strength.’