Samphire Hoe by Ros Barber

Here, the Earth is inside out:
drilled from the belly of the English channel
and carted here in miserable truckloads;
tons and tons of it, bulldozed, and left for dead.

But beneath chalk marl’s unpromising
grey nudity, the tick of life recovers.
A gull preens a single seed out of a feather.
Spores alight from the long haul of a gale.

Things grow. Leaves sprout, and the first flowers,
burst in the air like astonishment.
It’s a fierce soil they grow in, these pioneers,
but their roots fix Nitrogen into its teeth, and tame it.

Slowly, slowly, but faster than you would imagine,
the land heals like a bruise,
colouring differently season by season,
and dresses itself, under the glare of the weather.

Now, it is rich. Sea beet, samphire, kidney vetch,
and the early spider orchid, supposedly only found
in ancient fields. It’s all a lie. Here’s the proof
Nature, like Love, celebrates the new.

My love. My love, be what you are inside.
Pull your substance, rough as it is, from your dark heart
and spread it out under the sun.
Let people see. Let rain fall, and know: miracles come.

— Ros Barber