Deryn Rees-Jones

Three Glances at a Field of Poppies.

 

The first a pointillist’s dream:

blood drop, an ache, or a smudge

of dolour.

 

*

 

Zoom in where an ant tips a blade

of grass and the steps of its brothers

are footfalls of sorrow.

 

*

 

Now where? To the dark, where a seed

might ring, imagining a life

pushed into form, pure colour.

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