My transition vision is not a film noir,
It's more like saturday morning picture club at the Rio cinema
In my own "field of dreams" I obtain a yield of quinoa,
soaked and dried and stored in old nutella jars.
At Clissold Park Farm I exchange some seeds for milk,
from those goats of the long haired, short legged ilk,
and a fine coat of silk from a tailor on Church street,
where the cows and the sheep and the people meet,
because these days we devolve power to the animals:
I see ducks quarrelling with the quacks in the quangos,
and free range chickens claiming squatter's rights in nandos.
We don't need ASBOs, we hold candlelight vigils for the village vandal,
who never shows,
and our councillors wander round in sandals and turquoise hemp corduroys
and speak of the earth in the manner of the Iroquois
saying "OI! we must consider each act's impact upon the seventh generation,
so let's grow potatoes on the platform at Stoke Newington station
and pay poor musicians to perform on the train,
Let's turn the roads into one big cycle lane!"
But I say "Hey! You went too far,
what about the skateboards, the hoverboards and the bumpercars?
and the Futurebus, propelled by magnets and a dynamo,
and what about my horse-drawn austin maestro?"
And they reply "well that's why we need to vision collectively"
so whatever you want to see,
whether it's more varieties of radish or less poetry,
then write it down and put it up on our post-it tree.