on the banks of the Thames back in 1775.
Fair to say it's seen it's fair share in all that time.
The Uprising in the American colonies.
The expansion and contraction of The British Empire.
The ages of Boz Dickens and Saucy Jack.
The coming of the railways and The Industrial Revolution.
A Great Stink, a Great Famine, a Great Depression and a Great Smog.
The construction of The Crystal Palace.
The re-location of The Crystal Palace.
The immolation of The Crystal Palace.
The Battle Of Cable Street and The Troubles in Ireland.
2 World Wars and 1 World Cup.
New Wave, Punk and The Carnabetian Army.
The end of apartheid in it's homeland.
The Brixton Riots. The King’s Cross Fire.
And four terrorist bombs on a July morning.
The broodboom Cycad’s been steadily growing away
at an average rate of about 2.5 cm a year.
That’s 2.5 cm a year for the past 232 years.
It’s not in any kind of a rush that’s for sure.
Now, it’s my sister who possesses the green fingers in my family.
My fingers, in stark contrast, are toxic black. All full of glyphosate.
I fear I’ll kill this living fossil if I stand near it for too long.
And I don’t want that on my conscience.
Best I beat a hasty retreat to The Temple Of Aeolus,
and leave this ancient evergreen to continue photosynthesizing.
Or whatever that thing is that plants do.
The Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew
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