Occasionally they return,
Like geraniums entwined
Around the spine of my
Corroded soul, oxidized
By rain and the gales
That to a border bind me,
Or red rosehip turned black,
Tired, surrounded by thorns,
And I found the secuteurs
In my mind likewise
Rusty and manufactured,
Like the rambles of
Dead botanic lecturers,
To only cut back brambles
And fragile tulip heads,
Until nature conceded
All germination, and growth.
Our words were said in
Reverse, devoid of feeling,
Until every word had bled
And I looked out of the
Kitchen window, beyond
The spiders and the crow
To where no flowers grow
In cells of memories.

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