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The Flowers Have Gone


As if the cry and canvas poetry of fifty men
Strung out like beads across the plaza's cool
Could mask the falling flutter and gunshot
Of greenbacks, waltzing answers in the air

Here is the boot-polish black of a baton
Sniggered slyly, its swish of trailing breath
Dank behind the smugly broken wishbone
Proselytes and their sweet, telephonic smiles

There, the soft smoke of a different paper
Once understood and feared for its fight
Pluming its tissue coils of prismatic colour
Its ash silently burying a million thoughts

There it dapples the private hope of prayer
Into rainbow quivers that shift each hour
And snuggled deeply in the nook of pain
The sweet air of the native softly dies


© David Incoll 2001


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Copyright by David Incoll 2001