The Weed

I am a weed.

Literally. Conyza sumatrensis, or Fleabane to my friends. You put Roundup on me, I die.

I have flowered and now I have very little to look forward to. There is no joy in my life. No-one cares enough even to put Roundup on me.

It seems like yesterday I was a seed floating on the wind. Life was bursting with colour and possibilities. I had no fears and everything was easy. Too easy maybe.

Now, I’m wedged between a footpath and a temporary fence. The fence keeps people out of a construction site, which has been a quiet hole in the ground since the previous developers ran out of money. But I know in my root that a new developer will come along and when he’s finished, the fence will come down and I’ll be trashed. I know this because I can just make out the “artist’s vision” on the billboard, which shows a gleaming paragon of urban bliss, which is utterly weedless.

It’s disappointing to end this way. The insects who used to visit me told me about fields where weeds like me grew a metre high and had generations of descendants all around them. I see them bathed in late sunshine like a Coke ad.

The funny thing is, I still have a lot to offer. It’s just that no-one wants it; if you’re not fresh and smooth, you’re yesterday and everyone’s moved on. At least I’m not a cut flower in a vase – all thrusting perfection and hubris.