The Coltsfoot’s revenge

Thinking that a poet should look

(like God)

not just on the outward appearance, but on the heart,

I plucked one golden, soft, defenceless bloom

and sniffed.

Liking the mead-sweet fragrance

I inhaled more deeply

like a connoisseur of fine wines

searching for words to describe the honey bouquet:

words that would shine bright and glossy as petals.

Then I sneezed

and sneezed

and sneezed again.

Not gentle, lady-like sneezes (I never could)

but violent explosions

each pollen speck a bomb

planted inside my skull

shaking my brains

reddening my nose

flooding my eyes

turning my sinuses thick and heavy.

I picture my gravestone:

Died 11^th April

Killed by a Coltsfoot.

My last thought:

‘Do bees sneeze?’

Barbara Mearns

Running

Hares flee from me

panic along hard roads, on hot feet

sprint through bare-earthed fields

dodge through brashings in gloomy shelter belts

and dash across salty turf, leaping the high-tide plastic debris.

In what kind of a world would they stop

brave the sight

the scent

and look me in the eye?  

Barbara Mearns