In Between and Under Stones
We inch gaps between stones for frogs
and beetles, let the hedge grow wild for dunnock
and coal tit. We strim a foot short of the border
hoping for hoverflies and small black bees.
In our city we leave spaces derelict:
eyesores, some say, vacant, undeveloped.
We know better. These are dens for foxes,
seeded by buddleia, zones of possibility.
Our skies were once like this: wild as far
as what we thought was heaven, ruled
by eagles, angels. Since they chequered them
with contrails, we’ve learned the vastness behind stones.
If you have any comments on this poem, Julian Dobson would be
pleased to hear from you.