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.