Beverley Bie
Tree Peony
Bent to the ground beneath its weight of bloom
And days of rain, I could have missed it
Dashing to the compost between showers.
The grass was dripping. I was in my slippers.
Why do I think of artificial things ?
Huge as plates. Soft and fine as a rosette
Of Kleenex. Full as a courtier's ruff.
Song and a dance. Swollen belly of a lute.
I count the blooms, then I count them again.
Triple last year's. I tip
One drooping head and plunge my face
Through a layer of ruffles and hairy stamens
To the oxblood fruit, splattering raindrops
To the earth. Clouds lower. Quick, snap it off.
They don't last. I'll let this one
Flaunt its petals in the front hall mirror.
Page(s) 22
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