The land is a prayer waiting to be said –
every brick, piece of tubing and rubbish
items on an imaginary checklist
to be answered by an unseen god.
Devoid of insects or birds, hamlets
of weeds have sprung up. Dandelions
defend their patch ruthlessly.
An encroaching wild chamomile plant
will duel to the death.
Looking at the city’s skyline
in the near distance, I know no amount
of prayers will stop this little idyll
from being torn apart like a hawk
with a caught rabbit. The barbed wire
seems to move a little further apart
when I think this.