This first August week, the geraniums <br />are flowering their second flush: <br />they braved last winter, huddled like cabbage stalks <br />so as to be inconspicuous <br />to the meddlesome and sterile fingers of frost, <br /> <br />then burst into abundant life, as did the pelargoniums, <br />with a blatant generosity or hymn of praise as if <br />to prove some point we'd overlooked <br />about Creation. <br /> <br />Last week, dead-headed like a battlefield, <br />they fell back into themselves, exhausted, <br />as if they wanted a long summer holiday, <br />to last right through to autumn's fall; <br /> <br />only, this week, to bear a second coming: <br />yet changed: their petals paler, exquisite, <br />water-coloured like shells fresh from the waves, <br />or the most delicate painted porcelain or <br />Japanese flowers brushed on silk; <br /> <br />as if God had fallen in love with His own Creation, <br />seeing it good; and then <br />repainted it with second, subtler coat; <br />and given to the geraniums <br />a second chance to remind us of the love <br />we missed the first time round.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0243-the-second-coming/
