Here is the winning entry in the Arvon International Poetry competition. Curious to know your thoughts on the piece. Without over-analysis (I've currently read it only once), I think for my taste it isn't tight enough, and that there are a couple of void terms, but that it is nevertheless very impressive, as a winning entry in an international poetry contest ought to be. The vivid imagery is particularly striking, especially when other than the orchid itself, it is not that exotic, rather and simply well-executed. What are your thoughts? http://www.telegraph.co.uk/arts/main.jhtml?view=DETAILS&grid=A1YourView&xml=/arts/2008/10/31/boarvon.xml Shoreditch Orchid - Peter Daniels They’re grubbing up the old modern rusty concrete lampposts, with a special orange grab on a fixture removal unit. The planters come up behind with new old lampposts in lamppost green, and bury each root in a freshly-dug hole. The bus can’t get past, brooding in vibrations. We’re stuck at the half-refurbished late-Georgian crescent of handbag wholesalers. The window won’t open. The man behind me whistles “What A Wonderful World”, and I think to myself: Any day soon the rubble will be sifted; the streets all swept, and we’ll be aboard a millennium tram ride, the smooth one we’ve been promised, with a while yet to go until the rising sea and the exterminating meteor, but close before the war starting with the robocar disaster. And when the millennium crumbles, I’II be squinting through the corrugated fence at the wreck of the mayor’s armoured vehicle, upside down where they dumped the files of the Inner City Partnership; and as I kick an old kerbstone I’II find you, Shoreditch orchid, true and shy, rooting in the meadow streets through old cable, broken porcelain, rivets and springs; living off the bones of the railway. You’ll make your entry unannounced, in the distraction of buddleia throwing its slender legs out in the air from nothing, from off the highest parapets, cheap attention-seeking shrub from somewhere like nowhere. But here you’ll identify your own private genes, a quiet specimen-bloom seeded in junk, and no use to any of us; only an intricate bee-trap composed in simple waxy petals, waiting for the bees to reinvent their appetite. We’ll be waiting for the maps to kindle as we get settled, where we find ourselves undiscovering the city, its lost works, disestablished under the bridges. There’s no more bargaining for melons and good brass buttons. We share your niche and crouch as the falling sun shines through smoke, and the lampposts fail to light the night to the place all buses go.