Grow

Grainy mortar,
once cleaving bricks together,
crumbles easily between thumb and forefinger
and chipped remnants of bricks are scattered on the ground
dry cracked and scorching.
Some sort of hard bleached wood weathered
and rain stained stands,
a post without a lintel.
Ants make their way purposefully along it.
Bits of rusty iron ripple on the ground
and broken glass glints
from amongst the sparsely grey grass.
Everywhere there are knotted bits of dead and thorny vines
broken pulled up and cast about.
Heat and desolation hum and press in
on your eyes your ears and ravage your throat.
Defying thorns,
a yellow flower.

Judith Morgan