 |
 |
|
|
 |
 |
|
|
GRAHAM BURCHELL
Late Summer Sun
I was a small plant once - tender, Fresh to the thrill of white probes winning A fumble through the wet crumble of ancestors.
My leaves were a flowing cut above the others, Even though I flowered briefly In the milky light of May’s uncertain clime.
Petals the colour of blued glass Made you smile in early summers passed. I noted your ‘heart skips’ then, “Ah” - short gasps rose from your lips As you turned, bent on full hips To see my fine erect stems And blooms in the ripeness of perfection.
“Interesting foliage,” another said. He has such leaves, mottled texture, The chlorophyll dark with rich abundance.”
“He’ll not flower more this season,” she scoffed. A breeze caught the weighty folds of her sky skirt. She dusted soil dried hands and never turned again To my mound of age grown clumsiness.
She looked with bitter eyes to the sun instead. “Not this season or any of the future. He’s used this land, drunk from it, seeded it. Now the soil is wrung.
We’re all a little tired – dulled, But we’ll joke I guess, and drink some memories, While his last flowers make fake dry fruit Beneath the wry smiles of this late summer sun.”
|
|
Sentinel Poetry #33 |
|
Online Magazine Monthly, August 2005. ISSN 1479-425X. Editor: Amatoritsero Ede |
