Racism’s Green Thumb


Should we
smell so sweet
in tolerant nature
when within its walls
lie death and victims’ cries?
To scent this growth would be criminal, yet
we do, and we douse it with water – the flame
that gives it fragrance –
and when it blossoms wide enough to flourish,
we are as doomed as a black thumb should be.




In the city
where the sprawling lilac of lavender
refuses to creep
and smog overtakes air,
cramped, urban
tongues exfoliate,
hands touch fleetingly
and rain forced furrowed brows
make 6pm eye contact with grey slabs
of concrete – only briefly
do we get to glimpse the psyche,
but ultimately only sharing seconds
in each of our different spaces
geared to specificity.
Heavy frowns and crows feet
are perched on fine faces;
commuters of planet earth
to home life and no life,
street life and dreamscapes –
but inside all fighting against global
grime and trains,
poverty, injustice, crime,
the rain and hungry babies.
Once in a while we do all stop
to share the blossoms falling
inside a city of strangers.