your spiked skull, follower
of the sun,
your scaly throat
coughing seeds to catch a slim wind.
Seeds as light as sun rays
enough by gravity
to never quite be air.
Blonde granary, your thorny ruff
a blighted scarf, a seed-stash,
in the jungle we call a garden
down a bank under telephone wires
a strange figure
your seeds alone
into their own eternity of green.
1 November 2017