Heath, September 2001
by Anne Stewart
[ poetry - april 07 ]
There is sustenance or not. The only choice
is which way round this grain of soil.
Roots decide. They direct the way to grow,
half-aware of neighbours, rustling coarsely.
They have a job to do, food to find.
Others may be stifled as they extend
or, having richness, thicken and avoid intrusion.
Roots are blind and have no need of reason.
They give their colours to the heath. Purple here,
yellow, spiked and speared; a turbulence of green.
Above ground, all that can be sensed and known
is that the air tastes sharp; the wind blows.
Yet some are grown where red comes easy.
Choice is where to tread and why it pleases.
