Migrations By Shanthy Milne For days now, the dandelion seeds have been floating, slipping inside through closing doors and rising to window ledges on the crests of spring’s lingering winds. The mother plants rejoice even in the roughest caresses of tiny hands. Exuberating in their decapitated states, they anticipate the huff and puff of rounded cheeks and the exhalation that will carry their children on their way. Their seeds are plentiful enough that those lost to the inhale need not be mourned; with matted wings they are destined to be spat out, back towards their mother’s still outstretched leaves. Here, they will implant themselves in the soil beside her remains whilst their siblings ride on gales towards pastures new. So continues the generational migration of the underdog. A worker plant, labelled a weed by the establishment, yet providing sustenance for the grazing animals hunted through the crosshairs of their guns. Those with means lace their lawns with herbicides in wilful ignorance of the lifegiving role of the humble weed; unimpeded by the necessity of nature’s movements and migrations in sustaining the flow of trophies that line their walls. In the shadows, lost amidst the headlines and twisted tales of newspapers, countless more migrations are underway. “Where are the vulnerable women and children?” the UK home secretary cries out, pointing to incoming vessels and ignoring the hundreds of women and children already before her, desperate for recognition, but rendered invisible through detention and a repetitive cycle of denial – be it of safety, freedom or simply a chance at life. --As the horizon dips, giving way to the sea, I spy the familiar undulations
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