Last winter, incendiaries ignited <br />A bloom of flame in your bedroom, <br />And the gramophone gouged <br />Through ‘Lili Marlene’ one last time <br />Before the bakelite buckled <br />And the window-glass turned liquid, <br />You lying there on the counterpane <br />As though asleep. The Luftwaffe <br />Droned your orisons as the rafters <br />Turned to ash. <br /> <br />And now, high summer – <br />Your house a withered flower – <br />The ruins are rank with willowherb, <br />Your open fireplace gutted, alive <br />With a rash of pink. A hundred weeds <br />Spire skyward, their summits flowers <br />Unbroken, painted magenta. Between six <br />And seven this morning, the blooms beneath <br />Opened, stamens primed and ready, <br />Domed above a gift of nectar. <br /> <br />One storey below, in the willowherb’s <br />Wall-less house, the styles wear bold <br />White crosses, beckoning bees <br />In a mute semaphore. Beneath these, <br />Pods curve and crack, their seeds <br />Aloft, alighting where your paraffin fire <br />Burst in a blaze of gold. <br /> <br />The first war coughed up poppies <br />From the cold and ruptured earth; <br />The second, willowherb, for there were <br />Not widows, but wraiths, with their <br />Seeds borne on the wind.<br /><br />Giles Watson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/willowherb/
