Poetry

You over took the plants like a war at Penzance.

By KERRY JONES | Published: November 16, 2011

You

over took the plants like a war at Penzance.

Strewn the

weed you are, standing tall
amongst the

rest with pride.
Nothing can

undress you in your stride.
Growing with

every new shoot all
captured the

love you grew, the sun,

the

rain, the dread every force winds you have outdone.
You came to

mature with life's simple rule, a run
of light,

water, and pure soil being your bed
and every

night you closed your head.

One summer

came by, warm and dry

and

lack of rain.
The grass

bed became a flame,
slowly it

took hold hook and eye
attaching to

your stem, soul releasing,
the grief

and sorrow deceasing.
The soothing

soil increasing,
killing the

flame, fresh shoots sprout again
you the

dandelion, vain.

Scatter your

seed leaving me the world
to see, just

a seedling, dandelion
mixed and

hurled amongst a million
blown with

the wind fast round I swirl
slowly I

tipple towards the ground
landing

being placed safe and sound.
This being

the place I have found.
Here I will

grow my seeds and spread
dandelions

across a grass bed.