Poem In Which the blackthorn apricot ponders the urn

The violas bow.
In which, the hedgehog is heard.
I dead head the hanging basket,
wish for a sun dial, a Victoriana gazebo.
The lilac blossom candle burns.
In which, I despair of the miniature rose.
The pistachio bench is with me.
In which, it rains all summer.
In which, I wait for news.
Waiting becomes my prime pursuit.
I seek to improve my skills.
In which, the outdoor tap is rebellious,
the watering can, a pink swan.

Poem in which, I retire on coral velvet
in cotton and ribbons, exhale
paper flowers. In which, my needle book
is useful. I dream I am a lace maker.
In which, there is a song in a room.
My psyche ripens on the ring tree.
The hours nestle in tissue paper.
I regard a Common Blue.
In which, I make Alice bands,
snack on sweet and salt in the intervals.
In which, thoughts of oceans overwhelm
and motorways estrange me. In which,
I cycle along the shore, my toes
stippled with sand, pearled with abandon.

Camellia Stafford


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