Where They Blossom
When she failed to find the bush of perfect flowers,
seen the day before when she walked from Lubna,
she said: this female flourishes more in cities
than this male, is content to turn grey like the buildings,
rumble with buses, breathe diesel fumes.
He prefers quiet, claims rural is peaceful, his daily battle
with moles and slugs, with the starlings who stole the
for his jam. The lost bush was near the slope of aspen,
its trembling leaves flashing white like late blossom.
This female flourishes where there are cafes, trams,
theatres and plots. He says the country has lots
of plots, and for her bush he’ll need compost,
a light drizzle, some seeds, and a few old windows
to make a greenhouse.
There is no colour here.
The trees are too short
bent like old women
drying into eternity.
They wait for Spring.
Daphne Milne is a member of Falmouth Poetry Group
and OOTA, Fremantle, WA. Her work is published in
various magazines and she runs occasional workshops
in St Ives, gives readings at various local litfests.