The flourishing of hope

The grass under my feet is cold,
The morning air, sharp.
I can smell the sweet pollen in the wind,
See the distant glint of a glass bottle,
Shattered in the grass.

Who else has stood in my exact place,
A meer pinprick in this beautiful painting?

Did they see the cool flowing water?
And the bright dandelions
That freckle the earth?

Or did they see the handlebar of a trolley,
Poking out from underneath the water.
And the plastic bags that suffocate,
The roots of the mangroves.

I can see the clutter of our existence,
The dirtied imprint we have left
On what once shone with life. 
These bright lights have started to flicker,
But by our hands,
We will reignite them.