How many of us
Have stopped to stare
As we wash dishes
Brew a far too expensive coffee
For cool white wine.
And the young ones
Looking for something to fill
Their emptiness of nothing.
And off course those with green fingers
Especially those with green fingers
They linger longer
Confusing memory with what is now
Impossible to see.
Yet they continue
Looking hard in concentration
Through glass turned opaque
By the light reflection of the room
Sometimes what is invisible to the eye
Our ears hear.
And for a short breech of time
Our hearts flutter
For what might be out there
Is magnified by fear
Causing blood to pump out of rhythm
When clouds stop blocking the sun
To make space for the moon
What do flowers do.
Do they bow their heads in slumber
Do stems and stalk flex so they can lean on another
As they wait.
For The slow slimy trail of those invaders
That we think we can hear
That crawls up stems
Gnashing holes in leaves so they wilt and die
As a momentary starter to their late night supper
Which they chew
One petal at a time
By sunrise they are gone
Save the silver trail of their passing
Like a tip reflecting
In the sparkling morning dew
Of the tears the flowers shed
Over the agony of their evening
Acclaimed International Artist – Writer, Performance Poet, Lecturer
Cultural Director of National Black Arts Alliance
Honorary Degree Lancaster University, UK