My refugee tomato plants
Have been suddenly
and forcibly moved
From the
warm, safe, place of their birth.
They have
been placed in strange containers,
And forced to move,
At the whim
of a power
That they
cannot communicate with,
Or understand.
They have
been singled out,
And selected
For arbitrary
reasons.
Pulled out
of their native soils,
Leaving
ripped root tendrils behind.
Then planted
separately
Into new
colder, strange places
And left to
regrow their roots
As best they
can
The fascists’
canon roared,
And Kim
Philby saw
Their impact
On blocks of
workers’ flats.
That sight
confirmed his intent
To betray
his class
To build a
better way of life for all.
A century later,
History repeats
Like a bad tune,
Playing over and over,
On a broken machine,
As the
inheritors of Kim’s failed dream
Bombard workers’
flats.
Who knows
what will grow
From the
ruins in Ukraine,
Flowers of
hope?
Or poisonous
thorns and spores
Of the virus
that makes humans kill
Each other
Again and again
and again?
