Watering wayward pots one morning
from the carnage of a cold-hearted summer.
Nascent fronds reveal themselves
to an astonished, awakening eye.
So much is again
I read everything
like a message in the moss
in a place where violets
the crumbling wall.
‘violets… the crumbling wall’ is a variation on a line from Denise Levertov’s “The Bereaved”, Overland to the Islands (1958).