artichoke seedhead

1 November 2017

Turn
your spiked skull, follower
of the sun,

your scaly throat
coughing seeds to catch a slim wind.
Seeds as light as sun rays

yet weighted
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
you cut
a strange figure

your seeds alone
spinning
into their own eternity of green.

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