April 9th

Deaths of Flowers

I would if I could choose 
Age and die outwards as a tulip does; 
Not as this iris drawing in, in-coiling 
Its complex strange taut inflorescence, willing 
Itself a bud again - though all achieved is 
No more than a clenched sadness, 

The tears of gum not flowing. 
I would choose the tulip’s reckless way of going; 
Whose petals answer light, altering by fractions 
From closed to wide, from one through many perfections, 
Til wretched, flamboyant, strayed beyond recall, 
Like flakes of fire they piecemeal fall.

EJ Scovell