I go to cut the daisies down
Cool air’s calling
November winds come round
But there
Amidst the withered stems
The eyes of the day
Stare up at me
In white skirts
Primly hemmed
I spin round
To a rose
Arching down
Of faintest blush
In repeat flush
And bees rush forth
For rare autumn nectar
Quenching thirst
From lavender spikes
Which should be through
But stand resolute
In fainter second hue
First published in The Seventh Quarry Poetry Magazine Issue Forty Summer/Autumn 2024, Wales