In spring, at the end of my grandparents’
Otherwise tidy garden, I gazed for hours
At scruffy clumps of white and purple flowers:
Granddad called them honesty,
Which puzzled me.
I watched their pretty petals perish,
Leaving brown paper parcels of seeds,
Waiting to be buffeted on a breeze
Whose windy fingers would peel away
Crackly film like cellophane
And release a multitude of moons,
Translucent, round and white,
Shimmering with an eerie light,
Gregarious in the gaunt flowerbed.
They were known as penny plants, self-seeding,
Shiny Judas coins, cut and dried
In the Christmas centrepiece, while outside,
With their seeds wind-scattered,
They became rustling winter skeletons,
Snow-bound and ice shattered.
Kim M. Russell, 2016
Another poem that was an unsuccessful submission to a competition. I posted an earlier version of this a year ago.