Neolithic Flowers
Eternity’s span
this arch of stars,
counts time beyond
ten finger tips.
Into wicker’s rest.
Fill this grave
with a crush
of wild flowers.
Mixed meadows
delicate pastels
and fine perfumes,
grace your memory.
Unbearable grief
and beauty speak
under the voice.
Why must our ways
always be run,
through a curtain
of dying flowers
and falling tears.
© Dai Fry 20th February 2020.
The Wombwell Rainbow 