Poppies by Nesta Wyn Jones

August, in Brittany,
And in the breeze sways and pirouettes
A red ballerina.

Brittany
As if someone
Had thrown tiny pieces of red
Tissue paper
Over the hedges
And they’d all unfolded
Flaming
In the sun.

August
And my hand itched to gather them,
But I knew, if I did,
There’d only be the stain
Of red
On my fingers
When the dew lifted.

Twilight, August in Brittany.
Into the dark staring and staring
I see their purple bruises
In every corner
Quaking
To the rumpus of crickets.

Here,
There’s a wreath of plastic in the rain…
It’s not that flower that’s plaited in it.

by Nesta Wyn Jones

(b.1946)

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