Stood for ages waiting for the sun to turn up and pay

homage to a clutch of brilliant orange poppies.

It declined. But the poppies couldn’t be bothered to get

hung up on feelings of betrayal and bobbed about —

ditsy and undimmed — perhaps slightly drunk on some

fringe classic I couldn’t catch beneath the growl

of road construction. Sonata for a cabbage white, solo

-fluttered? Maybe a soft-shoe shuffle from the ants?