Beneath the skin of the city
its vital organs function:
not the ones you think I mean,
the staff whose manual actions
keep human beings hearty –
supplying power and food,
sweeping roads and pavements clean,
arresting fire or flood –
no, not those, I speak
of parks and lawns and leaves,
of blossom flossed on trees like frost
that licence us to breathe:
the bluebell heads that peek
through ribs of ancient woods,
the twilight fox, the midnight moths,
the moss, the worms, the weeds.
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