Tulip
You seemed to be born blind.
At first in cracked pot, in frosted compost
Your leaves pined – jaded limp swords
Fingering in, I could find no core,
nothing that might bloom.
So we passed the days.
You grew lankier with the light.
But still, unpromising.
Until I thought a slit of pink, discernible
where your heart might be.
I allowed no hope, only acceptance
that you were to be nothing at all.
But through those barren days, you persisted.
Threw up one morning, a wavering stem
balancing on the head. A bud.
The cold returned. The Spring was false
dawn to newly returned swallows.
Early celandines hid their premature suns.
But your stems, veering like snakes uncoiling
half-blind, sought the light, insistent.
Last Wednesday it was. I stepped outside to find
a pair of fires, two fires or stars of fire – you flamed
sudden and shockingly scarlet – waxed petals flung wide
open – and your heart nothing timid but bristling black
round the tiniest triune sun. Offered yourself.
Helen T Curtis is a poet living in Derbyshire. Her work explores the light and the dark of the landscape and the heart and has been published in various publications including Artemis Poetry, Dreich, and the Oxford School of Poetry Review. She has her first collection forthcoming with Broken Sleep Books in January 2025.