Saturday 8 June 2019

The Plight of the Peony















My days of being caressed  
And titillated  
By those rotund bumblers’ 
Dangling feet 
Have been cut short 

I am no longer bathed  
In the luxurious warmth 
From the globe of illumination  
Or sprinkled and splashed  
With succulent life  

Instead, my severed stem 
Was doused in tepid tap water 
While my head careened  
Against cold, imprisoning glass 
To droop, dispirited, 
Thirsty for hope 

I know full well 
My buxom fragrance  
Permeates  
This spiritless box 
Yet I find nostrils 
Inserting themselves 
Between my silk petals  
As if they could inhale  
Angelic bliss 
Before I am to be  
Casually discarded, 
Heaped with tomorrow's  
Repugnant coffee grounds 

Alas,  
‘Tis the cruelest of jokes