It's Still Life

Wild Poppies …

I.
In a Danish field
you ripple, riding
a breeze. Your seeds
from dark to bright, blossoms
scattered like broken vows.

II.
Wild peals of feathered voice,
the wind that envies your
silken red. Quick!
Root your brethren to a field
in drifts of delirium.

III.
You scorn
shadows nesting
in shafts of wheat,
scorn the corn
and its rigid rod.

IV.
You bend and dance,
so proud in your scarlet skirts,
the colour of love
growing in clover
between the stones.

V.
Your crimson cloud
is a sunset’s blushing hanky,
you red-skinned philosophy
cropped, and tilled in between
here and paradise.