They’re sodden, the lot of them,

leafy, with more than a whiff

of damage,

mottled with history,

dark with grime.

God knows I’ve wanted them different –

less preoccupied, more jaunty,

less handle-with-care,

more airbrushed,

less prone

to impossible dreams, less perishable,

a little more willing

to soak in the sun.

They don’t measure up.

They’re unpunctual.

They turn suddenly tuberous.

But they matter

for their crooked smiles,

their endless distractions,

their sudden pauses –

signs that they know

how green stems twist