Not enough
The ring of sunflowers I planted
for an anticipated corona
of yellow petalled faces
to circle the large clay urn
in the centre of the lawn
has not materialised.
They are more like a bunch
of reluctant guests at a party
where they’ve been coerced to appear:
a couple of shy straggly ones arriving
too early, a few more bowling in,
brash and loud then fading quickly.
While most of them are still dressed
in their green coats unsure of whether
to cross the threshold at all.
I give them as much water as I can
but I know it is not enough.
I watch their heads loll
towards the carpet of parched grass
the colours of smoke –
ochre, bleached wheat, ash grey.
Sometimes ‘not enough’ feels like
the only thing we are left with,
when someone is about to die, or falls
into a slow decline, the absence of them,
the absences in them. We give them
what we have and we hope
it is enough for them. The bees seem
content with the sunflowers;
they gorge on the disk florets
packing their pollen sacs
like long distance travellers.
Oh the journeys we must all share.
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