Dear scrubby scrap of nature reserve,

I can see you’re struggling,

And so am I;

You are sad,

And so am I;

You are confined,

I feel that too;

You are tenacious,

And I try to be.

You are supposed to be reserved

As a haven, an oasis,

An island of serenity;

Yet the odour of your stream

Hangs at the back of my throat;

The foam of a stagnant pool

Winds me like a gut punch;

Jags of detritus

Sear your soft earth.

In spite of it all,

You hold onto wildness;

My dear, you are still you.

My eyes crave your messy tangle;

My shoulders soften to the screech of a jay,

Even as machinery mournfully moans

From the nearby industrial estate.

You are still green,

You are still birthing spring –

The catkins and the

Tiniest pink spray of hazel bud bursting.

In spite of your ailments,

You entice me to watch

It all unfurl

Another time.