Crisis Management

Here, invisible pollen is scratchy.

Tissue strips around my nose are affected.

I walk the dog in histamine’s shadow.

By fields that are desiccating. UV light.

Spitfire birds stutter up high. Give me 

A bulb of water. To wash off the air.

Green redefines itself in the lane’s freshness.

My wife would like this place. Intelligent clouds

Bear no trace of hatred. I push nettles

With both palms. The dead weight of illness is 

Being lifted off her. A slop of mud shrinks.

Here, trees are older than my Grandfather.

Stephen Paul Wren