It is all in the snag.
Like a magnet to metal,
it is thorn to flesh:

a thug plant. The arch
of their curve is overbearing and rooted
in self-importance,

ruby blood from the Rubus.
As invasions go, this is also all about
the birds and bees.

I have considered taking secateurs on
morning walks to snip tentacles reaching across paths,
but altruism is deflated by potential pricks

(as an acorn falls into their cradle
and advances); I have considered too
the scratches and scars on my legs –

how many shirts have tears
weeping red. How they rise above all around them,
stems hidden within.

Keeping dead in
and sheep off graves, the real myth is
they make good hedges.

Is this what it means to be a pioneer?



Mike Ferguson

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