I chwyn neu ddim i chwyn? 

Sometimes decisions are easy 

Resources open their jaws to nab and nip, 

Blackthorn spikes my scream to grab 

And bite with pain and struggle. 

Pink flowers and weeds and leaves tremble 

As I approach.  I could not, I would not 

Take them down, not now to cut – but stay. 

Their day is saved. 

Making choices 

Through the rain tears in the lens. 

Voices in the nearness                                       

Shouting ow and ouch and struggle 

As they, the men, charge through – 

Only downed by spikes that have gripped. 

I carry a poor bundle to barrel and tip. 

The crone face jumps out to greet me, 

Sturdy, moss adorned, thorn protected. 

Hard roots and stumps will not budge 

She is beautiful in the soft green velvet. 

I rescue her though lens and light. 

I continue, following in their wake 

Voices lessen with effort and humph. 

I hold the dying foxglove 

And save the stump 

To show to all, to weed, to not.