surreal lance
My mother had laid her Sunday flowers,
In her favourite vase, I painted as a child.
Violet and pink, binded with a string,
Seeping soft sentiment through to her veins.
Freshly-washed ceramic walls,
From the flowers that laid there before.
White withered tulips, now sit in compost,
New seeds to incarnate for next Sunday's arrangement.
Watching from the windowsill,
While I’m watering my seeds, rooted into soil.
Skin stitched onto each rose petal,
My blood encroaches their stems.
My garden escapes the ground,
As her garden turns grey with slips of sand.
When childhood tears slide down her cheek,
She looks at the flowers, searching for my face.
Quietly, petals drop down one-by-one.
Polaroid pigment, fades with the wind.
Caving in, unnoticed. Crumpled tissue.
Blinds roll down, light dims.
Fossilised water, cleared out for spring.
Branches return to ashes and dust.
Hand-painted flowers, washed over again,
For my mother to lay her new Sunday flowers.
raw crypt
proper current
dense stag