As tenant of a land whose lease is shifting,
full of small print, I’ll opt for a simple hamlet
and live the life of a pebble instead of a rock.
Such simplicity, I hope, will bring in a puff
of clean, new air; no longer will dilemmas
multiply like spinach or split a shade of green
into a thousand hues. Mine will be a simple green,
not jungle-green or artichoke, not a bloom shifting
with swathes of algae on pools. No loaded dilemma
will find a spare room anywhere in my hamlet –
spiders and cobwebs will be gone in a puff.
My green will be seaweed, salty, crusted on a rock.
And consider Peter the Fisherman’s rock.
Will it prevail against hell’s gates? How green
he must have felt at cock-crow, self-image a puff,
a spit in the wind. A house of stone on shifting
sand must always sink…
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