I know there is much to be grateful for,
the Indian summer, smiling warmly
on the woodland's year end celebration -
the satisfied snuffle of hungry beasts
as they fatten for the cold months ahead -
But the truth is I belong with the dead.
'Ragwort" condemns me to the hand me downs
of clothing deprived of exuberance,
and I am 'stinking Willie', 'stammerwort',
'mare's fart', sitting in the dying grasslands,
waiting for my own death to seep poison
into The livers of grazing livestock.
Senecio squalidus, my cousin,
was a traveller, plucked from Mount Etna
and cherished beneath the dreaming spires,
watched by earnest students, then blown around the walls
to catch trains round Wales and Worcestershire.
I lack the glamour, my golden yellow
wins no prizes and must be swept away
to burn to ashes in a cleansing fire.
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