Wildflowers are weeds
& dead poets

parked
beside the road,

two ways, flashing,
splitting ways in half

& timekeeper ticking
a thin, plastic heartbeat.

*

He would like to turn
before the turn; for the road

lies
again; in the distance

it holds up
treeline spine

of sky and field
& shows how pages

press a dead flower
of a man.

*

He writes, third person.
Will someone decide?

Words, tiny, mean bones,
cannot.

Only a body contains
a promised land.

*

Today the breeze
is fresh truth.

Every field makes its path.
Every path is not a path.

The dead blooms strangle,
contentedly; to be killed

just enough
to bring back to life

the scent
in the colour

& slant of ache.

– ph 30/11/16 – Hamilton