My eyes tell me they don't belong here
flourishing in a foreign climate
Invasive some say?
they do no harm, do they?

The natives seem content
letting their seeds mix
For a stronger more colourful future
or will the garden be overrun

The gardener, bless him
seems to have lost control
Sat in his hut drinking tea, watching
sharpening his secateurs

The deadheading is ruthless
lazy and the weak first, then the needy
The natives are nearly all gone
some clinging on, fighting back

My eyes tell me I don't belong here
maybe I'll flourish in warmer climes
I'll do no harm
honest?