< Poems by Charles Jobson >

Abstract 2 & 3

In the undergrowth something stirs.
A twig is snapped,
a tiny fern bends down

such a galaxy of vegetation
all patiently waiting
for the heralded return.

We cannot know
what it is like to be a plant,
but the world spins on a similar axis

as green shoots stretch out
we can feel the rumblings of the planet.

All the hate and envy of the world
cannot dim these outreaching tentacles.
Good things grow and produce
a harvest strong enough to endure.

Let those lights glimmer,
let the leaves sparkle with their dew
and let the flowers of truth
live in a warming sun.

Poem İ Charles Jobson. For permission to re-use contact  godfrey@wordsout.co.uk.  Painting İ Samuel Toussaint.