In hidden meadows; that are intertwined together as jewelled pearls flowering in a rose bush: that stands floppy; and still as a sunrise: that yellows in the circles of auburn crimson. Green, shrubbery leaves; that stand in a sunflower-tipped bed; of chocolate-tinged posies; and bluebells red, and love-kissed, like valentines: and meringue: baby-blue carded roses that flower away from the rest; in a little garden, by a black; painted gate: that closes off to the blue sky, and the felt-tip clouds: and the night-time moon: that seals the snow globe: of flowers; in a play pen; of gold and coloured pens.
In the sketches of the blue sky; and the arching rainbow, that reaches for the chocolate-flavoured, gold tone of the melting pot; that flames and tints; in the green eye, Of the gold coins; that, greedy: drink from a spilling fountain tap: That seethes in boiling bubbles; over its human hand; that curls a dirty nail; curved, sinewy; And bronze in the steaming sunlight.
It ‘ouches’ as its red welt; curses over the creamed skin: in a gold-coloured; liquid shape; That slimes over the cooling: bared fist.
In the dream-like scenery: that closes the frame with a romantic gate; and a bridge of May, Stark, wooden beams form an architecture of train-tracked buildings; that wither and weep: In the haze of May; in the red and pink love blooms: that tie a bow around spring; and call for the tune of Summer: to play its harps; and birth to magic; that blossoms in the bloodied shades of the sun.
A bare ankle; twisted in the darkened tones of the wispy clouds; finds its feet, and lands; Amidst the tangled reeds of the grass; and is tickled by a bud of daisies: closed in like the fist, That sleeps, abandoned; in the squelching mud; in the boom and taunts of the sun.
The crooked limb; becomes curious, in its flowered wasteland; and twists, to see its eye-flashed picture, that lies in a bed of new daises; That do not know what to do in the arena that blows and flames; together: gently, gently, In the industrial waste, of the burning maze; of the litter and paper, and the rain.
The daisies, sprung into human hands; screaming, and reaching, like the pink of a newborn.
In the metal-backed benches, creeps a pair of feet, A squelch of new boots; Who is lit up in the brown, wholesomeness of the watered soil; that spills over the earth, like half-flying worms; who eat the daises, they do not know what else to do.
The stamped feet, are headed to the crescent-shaped river; and the cobbled bridge, When, in all the deadened life of the leaves; and autumn’s cruel descent into spring; Thinks it will stop, to see some daisies; that lie in a patch of ice and cream.
The hands: curled, and filled with unnatural rings; bend down and push the daises; Into a rusted, creaking water-hole; and leaves it amongst the reeds; and the moulded, crab-ridden slime; and lets it open its tin-can mouth; and kiss, kiss: the crying mud: the renewed water; That blinks in stars of tear drops, That trail down to the oxygen-thirsted compost, That execrates its old forebears, Who line up in a green-hedged crown;
That settles down; That consumes the faded human note; That reads it is…Looking for daises .