Courgette flowers

Dusk crumples our yellow
into tissue fingers
sticky with scents of spice and mulch;

each night we see our young
creak, swell, yearn
for the sky’s gleam.

Once, through a furze
of erect hairs, we saw plump slugs
trail over their bodies;

sometimes a hand reaches
into our prickled canopy,
takes some of them to another place.

We hear whispers of ‘soup’ and ‘stew’
but refuse to imagine; we still dream
of reaching the light.

Once, a woman chose us
instead of candles for her table,
she lifted us close to her face,

the nearest we have been to love.


Courgette Flowers ‘sticky with scents of spice and mulch’

 
 
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