I’ve watched a sapling scrapping for
its place amongst the gutter’s dregs.
Perched atop a block of flats,
with roots spilling over the edge.
It doesn’t prosper but it grows,
first, one sky-bound stem then two.
One to taste the midday sun,
another for the harbour’s dew.
Heedless of its longing for lush
earth to spread and weave its roots,
leaves unfurl in mid-year rays
as stained-glass insects follow suit.
Still, I worry it won’t outlast
those coal dust months when winds will shed
its verdant veil and leave it bare
for lonely, iced fingers to spread.
One gust would be its slaughter,
but if that tree can toil
for sunlight, soil and water
to forge a place amongst
the slate, lead and mortar
then maybe I can, too.