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WEEDS – a submission.

1

We have a tendency to

rip

them

out.

Their insurgent growth pervades our persistent desire to remain in control, of something, anything in this world, this world that continues to spin on its axis, whilst the heads of its inhabitants are spinning unchecked. Boundless opportunity with no constraint, so much so that we’re striving for a hold on a thing that grows without aid, in soil or sand or stones, and oh! So green! Often with little yellow floral bits and more often with tiny thistles…but for what? A protective mechanism, because all on its own it needs to insulate itself from that leering leather gardening glove intending to clear it, to block out the high warmth, to expose the dirt underneath, to tidy the untidy-able, to regain some semblance of order in a world gone wild.

2

Perception: a garden untamed, a yard let go, a curb un-trimmed, a citizen not playing their role. A space lacking angles; without the squares and rectangles and defined patterns that our impressionable brains crave, we struggle to see the beauty that nature provides without a sharp set of secateurs impeding: hindering the splurging surge upward, arresting the development of detritus in a space meant for colourful perfection and precision.

3

The thickening of a plot with uncultivated growth: akin to the human mind escaped the reigns of structure. Flourishing wilderness, both of head and hearth, are amenable to configuration and do well once contained and cauterised. A thriving patch of green will exclude, on its own, the creeping threat of wild growth, as will the mind of thoughts unsolicited. Once trained, impenetrable. Impervious. Adhering.

——- This was a submission to The Suburban Review, a competition with the prompt “weeds.”

"If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

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