Painted Flowers

To thin his past out, test himself,
he tried to recall lilies, every time he'd seen them -
visits to florists and cemeteries, the way she used to fill
a vase with them, one by one. Everywhere between
he willed blackness, somewhere to kneel safely.

Galleries too, walking miles without realising,
still-lifes immune to sudden frosts,
cracked varnish darkening by the year;
flower sellers at the gate in the failing light,
rusty streetlamps drooping, winter sunflowers.

There dawns a moment in every metaphor's life
when it breaks down, falls apart, oh,
like a flower. But life goes on, so they say,
in a single dripless coat. Everyone's looking for
a perfect finish, an irreproducible black tulip.

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tpl@eng.cam.ac.uk