Plants become weeds when they obstruct our plans (Richard Mabey).
Our path takes us
Through grey thorn scrub;
A shock of yellow butterflies,
Red ant-hills, shoulder-high.
Bathed in African light
We inhale the scents and
Recover the senses of childhood
In a landscape of the heart.
This wide country has space;
The thorn bushes are free to thrive
For now.