We missed our flower, again,
red against the spray of stones,
small and bold, a defiant shout of life
beneath the grey and purple violence of the clouds.
We miss her, year on year,
with chatter and the moment's clamour
drowning out the hours and that soft-stepped thief,
who claims the seasons and quieter dreams of "if" and "when".
We will miss her in our evening,
when shadows kiss the sun-burnt soil
and the scent of grass and night-damped leaves
bear a silence from the faltering song of crake and wren.
But still she'll be, our red flower missed,
despite the dust of Summer's days,
defiant in the hope of rain and a touch
of lovers, we who hear her song and pause and cry.
YOU ARE READING
A Wrong Turn
PoetryA collection of poems that chart a relationship from its genesis to its failure and beyond.
