It’s a start, to break the concrete with a drill,
Toss the slabs to the side,
Powder the square with fine soil,
Wall the bed with weaving wicker,
Readying the world for new daffodils and new birches.
They’re small things, daunted by the steep church
And tall buildings towering above like old giants.
Hopefully we’ll see these teenage twigs
Rise to the height of the blocks beside
In the little war between green and grey.
To keep us going, we have these little flowers,
Their heads of butter, to brighten up our day.