Next door’s exuberant floribunda
flings candy floss up in the apple boughs
and joyful handfuls all across the grass
like a party to reveal that, it’s a girl! –
while our only rose, a pedigree
slumming it beside the borage,
The Lady of Shallot, reserves the right
to keep its secrets for a little longer,
wistful leaflets leaning out for light
graceful sepals just and so parting
on burning yellow edged with coral frills.
The neighbourhood red kite wobbles due south
moving without moving
whistling celtic folk tunes to itself
held up by its focal length
serenity a front. It’s hungry. Fierce.
And here on earth the myriad daisies star
in their amateur dramatics; no human being
is ever perfect, but each daisy is. Buttercups
do cloth of hi-viz and the lesser wild things,
campion, speedwell, hay rattle, the blessed dandelion,
are random like the paintbox splashed
around the nave of the cathedral, hundreds and
thousands, where the sun comes through
the indifferent angel kneeling by the child.
Lozenges of rose spill in the transept.
Who can explain why fallen petals glow.
Lyn 