Pollinated by ‘Synaesthesia’
After the unexpected death, a vase of sunflowers.
Storms against the suspended background, a whey-
flavoured husk of longing: she steams
the milk in a cold café, heating her palms
on the metal. There is the man
in angelic denim; he sips her gourmet lattes
just so her uniform looms, Rothko-bold
between the bar
and the azure of fragrant sky outside.
She never tries to talk
of anything but weather. Saving her pennies
she feeds the bees, hot drops
of honey on platters of copper.
(Have you been suffering, have you been
so ill as to pale in the sun?)
Under London fog, her buttons
incandesce, one by one
the calefaction of hands on her chest.
These are the black and yellow bugs,
the summer showers;
such myriad music becoming undone
in a swarm, the vivid beats
of cells in blood. He gives her
a fistful of bees, that nectarous
that folds in the sun,
that shakes in the breeze
A cultivated flourish, the sensitivity
of every temperate spread; a
certain whorl of petal, of iris.
She melts into
each floret of disc,
coveting pain ornamental.