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And a final poem for today (or yesterday, since it’s now past midnight) – one I wrote for a friend of mine.

The Guerrilla Gardener’s Song

He liked to grow poppies in harsh, grey cities,
Calendulas, cornflowers, set against steel.
He’d splash them like paint over walls, over chimneys,
Fling them at strangers with unrestrained zeal.
And the green in their leaves was vibrant and verdant,
The green had the power to heal.

Weaving their stems around lampposts and gateposts
They smothered all signs of despair and decay.
The people all marvelled in coloured confusion,
Lost track of the hour, the night and the day.
And the green in their leaves was vibrant and verdant,
The green had the spirit to stay. 

His floral graffiti was talk of the town,
And ‘til the first sighing of autumn it shone.
In the springtime the seedlings arose in their millions,
Making his mark even after he’d gone.
And the green in their leaves was vibrant and verdant,
The green had the strength to go on. 

Vicki Watson © 2015

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