In meadows bright where bluebells swayed, where daisies crowned the lea,
The woodland shone in golden light, a realm both proud and free.
Yet creeping through the forest fair, with roots both thick and wide,
The choking weeds took silent hold and clung on every side.
The poppies stood in crimson bold, the violets soft with grace,
Yet thorns arose in twisted ranks and stole their hallowed place.
The oaks, once strong, in whispers groaned, their leaves now starved of air,
While tendrils coiled with grasping greed, and none would stop nor care.
The shepherd’s staff lay cast aside, the garden left untamed,
For those who once had pulled the weeds now feared to be defamed.
“They too must grow!” the rulers cried, “To pluck them is a sin!”
And so the nettles climbed unchecked, while flowers grew frail and thin.
Yet hark! A voice upon the wind, a call both stern and deep,
“Awake, ye men of leaf and root, before ye fall asleep!
For weeds shall not be woodland’s fate if hands are firm and true,
But wait too long, and all is lost, the sun shall cease to view.”
Oh, will the violets claim their ground, the oaks stand tall once more?
Or shall the thistles choke them out and rot the forest floor?
The hour wanes, the time is short, yet still a choice remains,
To cut the weeds or bow to them, and watch the flowers wane.
(By John Shenton)