Some may say I am filled with life, but here I cannot breath.
Some may say how bright I am, how very cosmopolitan and chic.
Some may say I am vibrant, radiant and pulsing with a rhythm all my own.
But here I cannot stretch forth my reach and here I cannot dance amidst the soft green earth that once here bade.
My voice is drowned amidst the rush of engines and choked upon the fumes of industry.
My flesh is covered here and torn asunder there.
A perfect scene of urban harmony, superficial though it is.
But amidst the quiet places and between the cracks that go ignored, I weave the threads of my beating heart in shades of Rosebay Willowherb and of Wallflowers clinging on.
A Buddleia grows on ground called waste and butterflies come to skip their merry flight amidst its vibrant hue.
A fox runs swift through the night air, over manicured grass and driveways sprayed clear of weeds.
You cannot keep me from this place, this cold hard world of concrete, no matter how you may try to forget my age old embrace.
The brightness of my stars overhead transform the orange skies with glimmers of hope and memories of lore long past modern use.
The winds of my breath shape the walls and soften the sharp edges of brick and stone while the rain kisses the bare earth where poppies dare to linger.
Mother to you all I am and so I will shake loose, the chains of my confinement and re-wild the sleeping earth where I have long since been forgotten.
So shall I kiss the earth and bring you all to life once more, and return you to the land that was your ancient birth.