Winter’s scaffold dismantled,
breeks folded and placed by the door.
Orange belts of magma swirled by turbines.
The cool-blue and black of ancient sculptors.
 
Parks are full of people strengthening
their reserves, sand-bagging the heart,
sharing the acute pangs or disposing of them
in the river, weighted with rock.
 
Then, the quiet sunrise, cobwebs bucket dew,
the moon sleepwalks in a faded pocket.
Lamp posts cough and splutter across pavements.
Flowers elbow one another in the long-waterless jar,
 
colour gone from lips, stems of dust held
together by nothing more and no less.
Petals kicked up, whirled among seasons
as the tides ricochet, they cannot say no.