by Susan Elliott-Myers

The Snowdrops

    Forty years, it took
    For the snowdrops to o’erspread the hillside,
    Drifts of white despite the cold,
    Persisting in windblown March,
    Drooping their heads in April rain,
    Outliving one who planted those few bulbs.
    One afternoon’s job for a bulldozer
    Pushing aside topsoil and tiny greening shoots
    Obliterated all.
    The work of destruction is quicker than that of creation.