The Poetry Place


Tuesday, 8 October 2013 16:39:19

Some reworkings and new thoughts...


I am dead-heading sunflowers

Their heads bowed by the weight

Like guilty children, but my height and more.

Though these are not as humans, for

They are grateful for the loss:

With each snip of secateurs

The stem springs up and straight.

relieved. The great saucers now old and black with seed

(with old seed?)

And rough to touch

Fall on the soft earth / or with a clump into my bucket

Each one a giant pocket watch

Whose petals mark (the) minutes and hours

In faded gold. Here too

(Are) Mexican sunflowers / toss their heads

Piercingly red against the blue

from which, miraculously, the clouds have fled.

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