Well, I suppose
it’s just an
easy step
the flowers
for you.
Roses and
poppies and
yellow coronella,
just a passing whim
for you.
Unnoticed go the hours
spent watering them;
what would you know about
richly turned
Rather, you:
Why are there so many
Don’t you care to
kill them off?
Keeping them
just sabotages
all this” – here a wise
sweep of your hands –
“that you planted,
you know”;
“And if you’d just
replace this fence – the whole
scene – you know –
would look much sweeter––”
hearing this beating
of their brothers,
my flowers creep away,
so next time you turn:
“Well? Where are the
plants, then,
(Those that would look
sweeter by a
new fence)”:
they are well gone,
seeking refuge;
we may see them
if we squint, but
it’s easier to say they
simply weren’t there
in the first place.
Little do you realise
they are sweet enough,
if you’d––
well, anyway
they’re sweet
for me.

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