A couple of weeks ago, we threw down the gauntlet to our readers and writers.
After the editors stopped hopping around (the gauntlet was left over from Malabarista's collection of medieval armour) we sat back and waited for the submissions to roll in. And roll in they did. Apparently, we were right: You folks know how to fix the world's problems. And you can do it in a thousand words or less. We are proud of you – if occasionally alarmed by the suggestions.
MinorVogonPoet joins Bel in offering us a solution to the world's problems in verse. It's green, and evocative of the dreams of our youth. We thank her.
The Green Cure
We gather before dawn
as the city festers
beneath an orange glow,
an alien space ship
in a troubled land.
We welcome men grown bitter
ranting against the world;
girls with haunted eyes
and arms crossed with cuts;
women who flee lonely flats,
crying babies in their arms;
all who walk through streets paved
not with gold but tears,
where cars and lorries churn
but neighbours pass,
exchange no greeting.
We find a neglected strip of land
between railway lines and walls
garlanded with graffiti.
Armed with gloves and secateurs
we battle brambles and broken glass,
bring out booty - crumpled trolleys,
empty tins and syringes.
We plant rows of runner beans,
courgettes, lettuces and leeks,
bright marigolds and sunflowers.
When the city shimmers
in summer haze, we hold a party.
Mini-skirts and saris, suits and jeans
mix and mingle, laze at tables,
celebrate our return
to the ancestral garden.