Trampling cream waves of cow parsley,
a young tournesol reaches tall
in thick-stemmed competition with its siblings.
Sharing their saffron symmetry,
and confident of a break in the clouds.
That audience of wheeling heads
tracks Helios’ daily ride, slowly bowing
as seed ripens, top heavy.
Until face down to earth from where they sprang,
necks kyphose from weight of swollen discs, distorted.
Leaves now hang burnt-out; petals also,
the pantaloon’s well-worn ruff, are shrivelling.
Unable to look up from prayer,
still green napes exposed, wait execution, kneeling.
Death reaps a threefold bounty:
your headless corpse first fed to livestock,
then harvest crushed to spread, slickly on slices.
And sown in your grave, the farmer’s fraction,
for a place in the sun worth saving.
viii.2000
Poetry Salzburg Review #9, 2006
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