Survivor

Over the young growth of dandelions,
buttercups, all that caste of plants,

I poured strong poison, half
as strong again as recommended;

into cracks full of furry moss,
among delicate grass that, had it grown

elsewhere, would have been pandered to
with fortifying stuff, and cut like hair.

Within three dry days aspiring shoots
became the colour of sand, and fell to ground.

But this morning, very early, in the centre
of a dead star of grey-brown, brittle leaves,

it was there: a single dandelion flower,
a sunburst after night rain,

pretty as a day-lily,
noble as helianthus.