The alarming sound of bells pursues us
to the edge of our slice of peace.
so we hurry upstairs – retreating
to a place of monks and poppies,
framed for offering their opium heads
boldly in this high heaven.
No gardener, tending and tidying
the earth for human delectation,
rather would I let roses ramble
and weary travellers rest
in shady gnarl of broken bow.
So it is pleasant here,
in your rescued window seat,
away from those insistent bells
calling us to be pious, reverent,
Here I am picked but not potted,
some kind of old seed, regenerating.