Flowers and fruit. (contains some offensive images)
Straight pavements, almost polished
are corridors I admire with their
artful flowers and borders,
tended from year to year.
Waves of flowers wash to the high tide of my feet,
make good a neighbourhood from dull ground,
shrug off butchery and other realms
where wielded weapons gleam
and thieves barter under bridges.
But behind white windows
a little of the darkness of caves gathers,
lives the infant
whose father penetrates her with a broken bottle
while mother holds her down,
the dog whose wagging tail is annoying,
and is chopped off on a block,
watched with a vacuous grin.
A little of the crypt and mugger's den
have escaped indoors,
have made their way to the decorated room.
The years of abuse
are like tobacco smoke that marks the wall,
go on and on and are endured.
Dark heart of the rose that soft petals hide
breathes foul odour beneath the sweetness.
Some fruit never ripens but rots from the core
that the knife will not slice
nor sun bleach by light of day.
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