Dead Lilies
The vase is full
of clean shapes,
browning like banana skins,
liver-spotted in the heat of the day.
Petals, thin as bible paper,
curl to parched and dog-eared flutes;
the dry corpse of a baked starfish
skirted with a scallop-edge.
She takes each in turn, –
crisp and furrowed with lifelessness –
severs the dead-heads from withered stems
to place in a square of old material.
As they rest, I wonder
how their waning went unnoticed;
their decline unseen;
whether dying can be preserved
like a pressed order propecia us flower in a creased fold.
But only pollen stains the cloth,
all of last autumn’s shades.
And stains her hands the same pale hue,
which, like time, will wash away.
Simon Middleton was a runner-up in the 2007 Bridport Junior Prize and his work has previously featured in the Cadaverine Magazine. Presently, he works as a teacher of English in Dorset, where he lives with his partner and son.