A canvas stretches beneath the colours of camellias
and rain. A child has left. The heads are petals
tucked crimson around gold—the stamens, pollen-
thick. A parent lives. Dropped from the stem
they fall intact. A spouse is sutured and well.
Each is a basket held, by those grey brackets
that hid the bud. My plans are undone. Detached
the heads rest on concrete not far from a scatter
of gumnuts and my exhalation of regret. I have
wearied of care. A wattlebird will make its home.
1 February 2016