Heather

Petols of tiny heather
scatter the moors.
Tough are the branches
reaching high as the heavy skies
push and pull at their
roots deeply suckling
at sodden soils
drying in a globalwide
battle of autonomy.
Then torn into new placements,
gardens wash their laymen lands
with feral colours in tiny soap
bubbled hands, of its white bloom,
taming it with borders
so stubbornly overgrown
it hinders to no limitations
as it tinders in the remnants of
atmospheric wholeness.
Laterally sweeping
in hopes of locking on
to futures untrodden
and dozily radiant purple
swamps of a forgotten
ancestral classroom,
it faces itself and looks for
new answers in the stary brilliance.
As we learn from its silence
hacking at our ankles
we are reawakened by
our thoughtful master
of survival in its collective
bosom we fall embedded
in history with the modern word
developed in clotting streams.
Our biblical dreams translated
in slang and colloquial equality
of soulful joy and pleasure
as we even begin to describe it,
it looses all fixation and is free
as the universe breaths it in
and we breath
back into our minds
billions of years
of life.