At the end of it all,
when we’ve reached for
the old clichés and found
them lacking or taxing
or just without that simple
rap-tap-tapping that we want
from the pointless word-haranguing,
At the end of all this worry
and all the ‘the’s and ‘there’s
and all the ‘ands’ and the clever
tricks of self-reference
and all the click-clacking of
the insects that poets are,
we turn at last to the flowers.
And so at the end of all
the missed moments,
and the chances not taken,
the way that circumstance breaks
perfection, the way that joy
has to be crammed into
the knot and tangle of seconds,
and minutes and hours,
the ever-ticking rattling clock
is the slave-driver. At the end
of all this, when that one
had gone again, I turned to owers.
Did you know, anthology
means ‘collection of flowers?’
I did. Yes.
Pluck this word,
and make something of it.
Anthology, bound pages
where the rustling of paper
is like the rustle-rustle of wind
through ower-bushes, garlands
of smell and beauty, earth-grown
not ink-grown. But in-between
those pages I have a flattened flower,
that I keep there, because like I said —
in times of blankness we reach for flowers.
So I reach for that flower I will not name,
I find it has lost its memory-giving smell,
and I speak.