REMNANTS
by Chris Wallace-Crabbe
When heavy-booted
men with dark hair and whiskers
have been re-stumping the house
you find these odd small
wodges of black clay
scattered on the concrete
like sinister dog turds
or the future stuff
of archaeology—remnants
from the Mobile Phone age
in which the intensely pink
nubs against a brown twig
signal that a prunus
can imagine spring,
ignoring the flames of Baghdad.
Copyright © 2007 by Chris Wallace-Crabbe