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Not everything grows from seeds. Some
things are too ancient for that:
simple and primal as hope.
A fern wetly uncoils in the Drakensberg.
A mushroom explodes dusty puffs in the New Forest.
Thistles and blackjacks can scatter
their floating fairies, flaunt bright flowers
and woo their clumsy hungry bumblebees,
honeybees, wasps, hoverflies, they’re not
shy, spread-petalled in the sun. Some
things grow slow and urgent in damp shade
or hesitantly peel back rows upon rows,
curls upon curls, of stiff frilled fronds
in the shadowed places, where their wildest greens
sing secrets to spiders. And they will live
regardless, as they did before the buzzing
and the buzz-eating spiders who hear their songs
with trembling leg-hairs. They will keep
swelling and unfolding, telling
whatever-comes-next: some things
you do, regardless.