There once was a little Plant
that felt so trapped by the earth,
that dreamed of pulling up his roots,
using his leaves to fly by the wind,
and of going off on wonderful adventures,
meeting up with bats or birds
or even the ancient pterosaurs,
of talking with the clouds,

perhaps rising as high as the sun
and looking back at the Blue Planet
far, far away and wondering
if he'd ever bother to return,
ever touch the earth once more with his roots,
but never again make green in the sunshine,
live instead in space for eternity,
ride like a piece of seaweed,

sliding backwards against the tide,
against all time itself till at long last
he might reach the Big Bang in reverse,
break through the singularity
into an altogether different kind of space
where animals were verdant
and plants had moved long beyond
the deepest red of blood.

But he never did escape
into the land of his imagination,
but remained forever on the Blue Planet
and learnt instead, like all of us,
to evolve just a little, to improve his shape
and by changing slowly,
made his first break for freedom
or something somewhat like it,

got rid of his cumbersome roots,
for who said that dreams don't alter the world?
And if not the world then a little
of ourselves instead, and by developing
maybe we could climb a few more feet
on the Tree of Evolution.
So there he hung
from the branch of a distant cousin,

one that was still fixed to the soil,
and smiled to himself inwardly
so no-one could see he was smiling,
for he knew, though here
he was hitching a lift,
at least he wasn't a parasite,
and therefore, in the clear morning air,
as a Plant he was perfectly happy.

15/6/07 Written in Cambridge

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