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I saw a poor crushed flower today - all tatty in the freezing weather and i thought of this poem about the passing of a sunflower.

Dying Sunflower

Gillian_ferguson_photo_high_resby Gillian K Ferguson13 Dec 2013

Osteoporosis has stricken the elderly woman sunflower.

Her colossal rusting head-eye so hooked
on crooked Atlas vertebrae -
like a bereaved swan -
my own neck hurts like green hell.

From the smouldering gold ruin
of her immaculate, sun-chameleon ruff -
grinning alchemist queen
of transmogrified summer light;
blown over such ingenious millennia,
her clammy cellular flames,
mimicry of the hottest yellow star:
petal metaphor -
she is crying dry saffron tears
to her oxidised copper foot.

The bright seasons are passing into bony chill.
But haunted still by clutching green ghosts of summer,

which sirened me here –
solitary mourner of funereal gold flora
in the crucible field.
Witness to the molten glory
of reluctant mass cremation.

I am pleased she cannot stare at me,
poorly old woman flower,
as her Borg sisters fix me with opiate glares.
Quizzing the only philosopher human why such beauty –
evolutionary Earth symbol of Sun meaning,
must pass. Why seasons?
Sacrificial seeds suckled in the charcoal eye?
Why not flaming into winter as eternal floral torch,
simple remedy of efflorescent light
illuminating doomed human hearts
like beating red Physalis,
through meridian gloom.

Petal sparks ignite in blue wind -
dancing like miniscule, luminescent turmeric fish.
My looming twilight face sets moon-to-violet -
blue-to-black at last. Eyes sealed like seeds of sight.
But I will not water my face, as frost smokes me out,
prickles my skin with fairy tattoos -
such wet molecules as grounded the honey-drunk,
bumping bumble-bees, crashes nectar-smashed,
frock-spoiled, drookit butterflies; smashes
stoned Tiger Moths, high on honeysuckle,
are poisoned with emotional chemistry.
Even set, each, with a perfect star fragment
fallen. As first and only crying animal imitating angels.
Washing my story with the detergent of time; salting,
until ingrained stains of resignation -
very warp fibres dyed with indelible pain,
are all that is left in the soul-Persil whiteness.

They would crook my head to Socratic earth,
where I keep on stumbling, rooting; burying
my loose feet - drinking rain through my round mouth
like a black eye. Lashed to the white cane of my bones.

My summer head alchemising light -
until I am again a blind winter atheist,
refusing to dream in other than green.

Bent as the narcissistic swan
in osteoporotic melancholy,
she does not predict the spectacular detonations
of her profligate, aureate sunchildren.
Now snug plugged prisoners in jailbird suits.
Dreaming seed-spawn in her burning image,
spat also from mother Sun.

Floral solar flare: cultured from water, coaxing earth.
Eternal flower-flame – Sun-symbol. Namesake. Child.
As a cold-blooded rock was the heart of a scorching star.

A green star is her brain
and hefty crown.

Until the Sun burns out -
or burns out Earth’s wet blue eye

to a blind socket in a blind black galaxy.
And all her endangered waters -
gorgeous sisterhood of flowers,
are the Universe’s agonising memory.

Remembered by a ghost of scent
like a dead woman’s folded linen.

Wandering cold, monochrome stars
with the cryogenic soul of seed -

a chemical code
in the mind of a poet.