I'll Always Dream Of Buttercups
The missile's fist kisses through brick.
With it, a dire chime's cymbal-crash
is held fast, as shrapnel capsules;
and this merciless bouquet traverses
over soft ground on harrowed feet.
Grief's perfume might still sigh relief -
a shedding of down, an atmospheric mercy -
but for now, our scattered blossoms by the quay
pirouette with the water's heartbeat.
Even now, I dream about
the buttercup who'd once
slept beside this river.