Bulbs rustle in paper bags,
pale corns, rhizomes, tubers
to breathe new life into a barren corporate patch.
Husks, tipped with green shoots,
become bold beauties under spring’s driving force.
I plant the basal-plated buds,
tendril rooted and tunic-scaled bodies,
in spirals beneath three gleaming Silver Birch,
mirrored a thousand times in ghostly office panes,
where masked-reflected faces, tap out quietly desperate times.
My soil-creased palms
And mud-sculpted fingernails, dig calmly
warmed by the heat of labour,
earthing nature’s blueprints in dull December.
Curious smokers shiver, smile and watch, their breaths pluming over coffee.
Musk-scented snowdrops, narcissus and daffodils
mark abundance and fertility, between ice-rimed January and Ides of March.
Heady hyacinth, deadly, Lily-of-the-Valley and cyclamen, to banish sorrows,
encircle trees with sumptuous tulips and citrusy freesias, in my hope
weary workers linger, as black-boughed leaves unfurl.
These bulbs contain an ancient forward plan,
lasting long after we’ve driven ourselves into the dark ether.