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?