Death of the Windflower                                                                                              

Out behind the tobacco shed, 
Along the split-rail's jagged edge
Strives the pink anemone, 
Splaying in late autumn's wind.

Shrugging off the tang of frostbite,
Lustily he makes his stand.
Master of his bully pulpit, 
Reverend crooning with the choir,

Songster mums and marigolds 
Wearing robes of yellow-browns.	
He sports his ragged lilac jacket, 
Tattering in December's cold,  
Leads his dwindling congregation,
Hymns to mark the season's end.		
When the sun has gone to bed, 
As the wintry snow steals in,

He lays himself upon soft earth, 
Time to close the chapel door,
No doubt about his own salvation, 
No questioning the will of God. 

With his final act of service,
He motions to his friend, the rabbit
"Come and worship at my feet, 
I'll feed your senses and your soul.

You can nibble at my toes. 
We can keep each other warm
Until the dawning of tomorrow 
Brings the resurrection of spring." 

(First published in The Lyric - 2019)

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