This sunflower wakes starved for light and rain.
Its shield edged with razor blades.
Its eye dried to spitting seeds.
Starved beyond satiate, dug up and burnt
Far from the compost bin, no utility to be found.
No better than a weapon that cannot harm. No worse
Than a flower that forgot to count its steps to the sun.
This soil wakes starved for rain and weeds.
Its womb dry like beached sand.
Proud rocks pulverized by a persistent tide
Into stubborn grains sticking to feet being cleaned
By the one needing to be saved. No nutrient to be found.
No better than a garden that died fallow
Suffering the relentless beating of a lonely sun.
The sun wakes starved for seed and dirt.
Its rays linger too long wanting to be expected.
Trapped under chemicals denied existence
Creates wealth inside a tomb we will all be buried.
The compost bin will not save us. No hope to be found.
Nothing better than an apocalypse to redefine the vision
Of this sunflower now replanted starting to count its steps.
S Francis writes at SailorPoet and is the creative alter ego of a career naval officer.