I’ve been thinking if plants grow slow,
Next to the vegetable patch,
Bruised water and milk in hand.
Out they come,
meaty black juice eaten by everything underneath.
A starling tugs with little reward at some string
Hanging on the washing line
Tilly gives it a voice.
I notice something strange,
Under the mackerel sky,
Between the green, is a young sapling.
This was no vegetable and it certainly wasn’t a weed.
I thought to myself whilst swooping to see,
that, I am sure, it is the beginning of a tree.
I checked the little tree every day,
Peeping up from my book in window-light, day-light, owl-light.
I became impatient, I stared, glared even, and thought
When will you be as tall as me?
With each day came a little more time to think, and so,
I now know, amongst other things, to move
At the speed of a sapling.